Fear and Loathing
by Edward Carson
Summary: A violent incident obliges Barrow to revisit his perspective on a few things and forces Carson to confront some unpleasant truths. The Carsons are married, but this story is non-canon, set in 1926. The rating is for violence in the first chapter and for the discussion of "mature subjects" in subsequent chapters.
1. Chapter 1: The Incident

**FEAR AND LOATHING***

 **Chapter 1 The Incident**

Thomas Barrow had a sixth sense for danger. He had to have, didn't he? It was a dangerous world for a man like him and only a finely-tuned awareness of potential hazards made it possible for him to live in that world while remaining true to the person he was. But he wasn't infallible. Sometimes he made mistakes.

He really shouldn't have been in the village at all. Mr. Carson was attending a meeting about war graves in the local cemetery and was not expected to be back at the Abbey until just before dinner. It was therefore left to the underbutler to manage the ritual of ringing the gong and to ensure that everything in the dining room met the exacting standards Mr. Carson demanded at every meal. Before the leaving the house the butler had thrust into Barrow's hands the measuring device he used every night and at every place to make sure that the silverware was properly spaced. The younger man was supposed to be there right now doing just that.

But Barrow believed that there was no point in having authority if you didn't exercise it and that meant making decisions for yourself. He could be down to the village in a matter of minutes at a quick walk, get his business at the post office done, and be back in plenty of time to ring the gong, and no one would be the wiser. It was a bit of a risk, but the only repercussion - if repercussions there were - would be a few harsh words from Mr. Carson. And Barrow was immune to that, having caught them so often.

It was a cloudy day. Rain was threatening. As Barrow slipped into the High Street it occurred to him that the early dimness made it seem later than it was and he checked his watch. It was always correct. Barrow was a clockmaker's son. He knew how to keep timepieces running perfectly. He was in good time. There were few people about. Late afternoon, when the pub had yet to open for the dinner traffic, always made for quiet streets in this quiet village, but the weather today contributed as well. Barrow was a little surprised to find the post office almost crowded.

Crowded by Downton Village standards, anyway. There were four men ahead of him. He took note, as he always did, of strangers, especially of men. All four wore canvas overalls, rough work shirts, workingmen's caps, and heavy boots. Road workers, he thought. Not farm labourers. He didn't recognize them. And while he was not on a name basis with everyone in the village or even the estate, over many years of living in the same place, he knew the faces. These men were not from this corner of Yorkshire. They might, perhaps, be employees of that concern that was widening the main road between Harrogate and York. Barrow knew the work was moving this way.

Although what they were doing in the post office, he could not say. Then he remembered that it was Friday, pay day on the road works. Perhaps they had come in to post some of their wages home to their families. His eyes ran over them. He was a keen observer, a facility demanded by his job but also one that came naturally to him. And then shook his head. No, they were a younger set, much younger than he was at any rate, and looked more likely to spend their hard-earned wages down at the pub than putting food into children's mouths. Not yet anyway.

They all looked over at him as he came in, the postmistress, too. He nodded politely, but they only stared, and after a few seconds went back to their business. Barrow listened to Mrs. Wigan's animated chatter. She wasn't exactly flirting with them - she was too old for that - but he could hear in her voice the silly tone of a woman flattered by the jocular attentions of young men. Barrow looked away, nauseated.

The postmistress's voice grated on his nerves, which were suddenly more sensitive. He did not like Mrs. Wigan. She had been the postmistress at Downton Village even before his arrival and he had never warmed to her. Hers was a position of power in the village. Everything came through the post office, which meant that she was uniquely situated to know things about everyone for miles around. That made Barrow uneasy. He knew how important information was. Knowledge was power. He appreciated this both as someone who had wielded information about others to his own advantage and as a person with secrets. Employees of His Majesty's Postal Services no doubt had to swear some kind of oath of confidence - he certainly hoped they did - but that did not wholly assuage his concerns. He was vulnerable to someone with the kind of knowledge available to her. She knew what he read and with whom he corresponded, and he thought she looked at him critically. And he did not like anyone who thought too much about him.

He also knew her to be a hypocrite. She sneered, as some did in the village, about the family and the Abbey staff, too, scoffing at their pretensions. Behind their backs, of course. She was all sweetness to His Lordship to his face and she was obsequiously polite to the senior staff members when they visited the post office. But Barrow had seen her in other circumstances, too. Mrs. Wigan had been part of the delegation appointed to establish a war memorial at Downton and as such had come to the Abbey to discuss it. As spokesman of the committee, she had taken particular pleasure, first, in passing over His Lordship for the chairmanship in favour of Mr. Carson, and then, when Mr. Carson went to serve the tea, treating him like a servant and ordering him about. This had not gone down well with the butler, who had spoken of the incident - both aspects of her behaviour troubling him - at length in the servants' hall later. Barrow suspected that this was the reason she was no longer associated with the committee, one of Mr. Carson's first acts as chairman being her removal. And thus she was at her station in the post office this afternoon, rather than at the war graves meeting.

Laughter caught Barrow's ear and he turned abruptly to see two of the men smiling in his direction and Mrs. Wigan concealing her mirth behind her hand. He didn't like that. He was about to give the whole thing up as a bad business and come back in the morning, when all four men moved as one away from the postmistress's counter. Two of them brushed by Barrow and left without a backward glance. A third man gestured Barrow forward.

"I'm still thinking," he said by way of explanation.

The other man said nothing, but put his hands in his pockets - a loutish habit that Mr. Carson abhorred and that Barrow had come to regard as ill-bred - and wandered over to look at the cards posted in the window, advertising jobs and lost objects.

Barrow was wary of a favour extended for no reason, but Mrs. Wigan was looking at his expectantly. He nodded his appreciation to the man who had spoken and presented his letter. It was a brief exchange - he saw her taking note of the recipient before she proceeded - and within two minutes he was out in the street again and glad to be so. He did not like the atmosphere in there.

He'd only been in the post office for a few minutes and yet it had gotten darker. And colder. The wind was up a little and it was sure to rain soon. Barrow wondered if Mr. Carson had taken an umbrella with him and then wondered why the thought had even crossed his mind. The butler was far more familiar with local weather patterns than he was. And he had himself to think about. Pulling his collar more tightly together, he bent his head against the brisk wind. A sense of unease had come over him. Suddenly his responsibilities at the Abbey were weighing down on him. He ought to be there. He picked up his pace and almost collided with someone who stepped without warning from the corner of a shut-up shop.

"'Scuse me," he said automatically and made to move around the person.

"Hullo."

The man - it was a man - moved with him and was in his way again, and crowding him closely. Barrow realized it was one of the two fellows who had left the shop before him, he recognized the boots. And then he looked up into the face that was just a little below his and saw there a smug smile. He shifted to the side again, and the other man shadowed him, and then he heard heavy steps behind him. Two more men.

"You in a hurry or something?"

They crowded up against him, nudging him, pushing him away from the street and back toward the building, to the quiet side lane that ran there. Downton Village didn't have alleyways _per se_ , not like a town or a city would. But there were unnoticed byways. The shack where he had once stored the rotten black market goods with which he'd hoped to make his fortune in the closing days of the war had been down one of these. Now he was being roughly shouldered down another. And they were muttering things, too. He couldn't quite catch the words, but he didn't have to. He knew what they were saying. He'd heard it all before.

"...fancy clothes..."

"...toffy ways..."

"Think you're better'n us 'n all..."

"...high and mighty..."

And that wasn't all. There were other words that he knew, too, not the kind that were flung at uppity servants, but those reserved for men like him, men who were different.

He knew every strategy was futile, but he tried them anyway, because it was all he could do. He pushed against them lightly, looking for weakness, but they tightened the circle around him, joined now by the fourth man who had been waiting in the shadows. They had strong, muscular bodies, hard from the physical labour they did all day. It wasn't going to be that easy to get away from them.

"If you will excuse me, fellows. I must get on." Was his voice casual enough? Smooth? Or did it reflect the tremors of fear that shook his heart?

"Oh, the busy man from the grand house."

"We've all got our work to do," Barrow blustered, managing a smile. "I'm sure you have business to attend to yourselves."

"Right now, _you're_ our business, mister fancy."

"Mr. _nancy_ ," another corrected, and they all laughed.

They were getting rougher, still only pushing him, but with more force now.

"Look," he tried, reaching for a comradely tone and dropping his posh Downton accent for his old Manchester manners, "I'm an ordinary bloke like you lot. Just doing a job. Nothing special."

"But you _are_ a special one, mate. Aren't you?"

He had to make a break for it, but they were ready. The first punch hit him just below the ribs and knocked the breath from him. It wasn't unexpected, but he cried out - more from shock, although it hurt, too - and they laughed loudly and hit him again. And then words and blows were raining down on him - hurtful, hateful words, he knew them all, and hard blows that threatened to break his bones. They were all strong men.

This hadn't happened to him in a long time. He'd been badly beaten a few years back, protecting Jimmy Kent from those men who had stolen his money at the Thirsk fair. But this was different, because of the other thing. But it didn't matter how long ago it had been. It wasn't something you ever forgot once you'd experienced it. There was pain, from their fists and their stiff boots, but there was emotional trauma, too. It was the kind of humiliation that stayed with a man long after broken bones and bruises had mended. It was one of the penalties of being different.

And it didn't matter to his self esteem that it was always an unfair fight. Barrow was in good shape. His work was physical and if it wasn't quite the same as building roads or transporting goods, it still required strength. And he kept himself in fighting form, so to speak, if only out of vanity. He was a handsome man and he cultivated that with the care he took of his body. But he hardly ever landed a blow in these kinds of altercations. It was hard to do when you were outnumbered.

It all hurt, but fear compounded the pain. He was afraid for his eyes, for his perfect teeth, and for his hands. He needed them for his work and for his own sense of self worth. But they didn't care. The usual escape, the only escape really, was the waning of their enthusiasm. Sometimes it helped to go limp and feign a faint. It was a tricky maneuvre, though, and did not always work. And it required him to give up trying to protect his face and thereby risk significant damage.

Before he could make up his mind to try it, though, the dynamic suddenly shifted. Above the noise of their words, the thuds of their fists on his flesh, and his own cries of pain, he heard another sound. A voice. It was a stentorian voice raised in indignation and it was all too familiar to Barrow.

"What is going on here!"

How often had he heard those very words and in that very tone! And watched the staff scatter in alarm in the wake of them. It was not a question that really sought an answer. It was rather merely an expression of Mr. Carson's profound disapproval.

Barrow's blood ran cold at the sound of it.

 _No, no, not him. Not HIM_! He must not see Barrow's humiliation, must not hear the filth spewing from their mouths and aimed at the underbutler. Even as he cringed at his own debasement, Barrow's mind entertained another equally distressing possibility. _They will hurt him, too_. Oh, was he not carrying enough here without having to take responsibility for that, too? The thought galvanized him, and he struggled anew against his attackers.

"Go away!" he screamed, though he did not know if his words were coherent, or if they could be heard above the violence that engulfed him.

But, oh, no. The old man had waded into the fray. Barrow could hear him now, closer to hand and still attempting to impose through that voice of command some control over this out-of-control situation. _Why doesn't he call the constable!_ Did Mr. Carson really think that the authority he wielded unchallenged at Downton Abbey extended to _this_?

It didn't. Barrow's assailants, riding a wave of adrenalin and the enthusiasm of mob action, appeared to welcome a new target, one or two of them jeering at the newcomer. Barrow heard more blows than he felt, heard grunts of pain that were not his own. And he was frightened even more than he had been when he'd faced them on his own. He couldn't see what was happening. Would this ever end?

And then, amidst the scuffling and thudding, a new sound. It was a metallic click. Barrow knew that sound, too. It was a knife. It wasn't a common thing in village altercations, but he remembered it from rare occasions in the city. Now the panic rose in him. He was yelling, screaming. And his was not the only voice of alarm. One of his assailants was protesting and another growled back at him with contempt.

And then there was a cry, not his own, and the panic coursing through him became a general one. There was a stampede of heavy boots. And he was alone. _They_ were alone.

Panting so hard that he could hardly hear anything else, Barrow groped in the semi-blindness of the sweat and tears in his eyes and found Mr. Carson, leaning heavily against the stone wall behind them and panting hard himself. They fell into each other, neither of them steady on their feet, leaning against one another to regain their equilibrium. The flat of Barrow's hand came up against the butler's chest and he felt the man's great heart hammering at a speed that alarmed him.

"Oh, God!" he cried, and reached for an arm, a hand, that he might offer the butler some support. The cottage hospital was not far away, perhaps only two short blocks. They could get there together. They _must_ get there.

As he took some of Carson's weight, Barrow felt a sharp pain in his own side and he faltered. Now the butler reached out to steady him. Barrow put his hand over Mr. Carson's, drew a deep breath, and took a step forward. He had to reach out to the wall for support and he became aware that his hand was now sticky with a thick, warm substance.

Blood.

And it was not his own.

 ***A/N1.** _Fear and Loathing_ is a bit over the top as the title for this story, but insofar as it reflects the feelings of the characters, it has some relevance.


	2. Chapter 2: The Reaction at the Abbey

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **Chapter 2 The Reaction at the Abbey**

 **His Old Companions**

How they got to the hospital Barrow would never know. He thought he staggered on the cobble-stone streets because he was bearing part of Mr. Carson's weight. But when he was relieved of that burden - Dr. Clarkson and his nurses rushing forward as they crashed into the ward - he didn't feel any better.

Barrow leaned against a wall, trying to catch his breath while the doctor assessed Mr. Carson. Barrow had choked out "knife" and the blood on his hands made him fear for a grievous wound from this source. But as soon as Dr. Clarkson's eyes lit on the butler's unnaturally florid face and saw him gasping for air, he grasped for a pulse and was ordering the nurses to help him get the patient into a bed quickly.

The underbutler felt a chill. Mr. Carson had had some kind of an episode during the war - Barrow had been working in the hospital at the time and Lady Sybil had told him about it. It wasn't a heart attack, but they'd been frightened by it all the same and Mr. Carson had been obliged to rest for several days. Was this a renewal of that trauma? Would it finish him off this time?

He hadn't seen a flurry like this in the hospital since he'd served here during the war and it unnerved him. He'd escaped the terror of the trenches for the less intense but still sickening environs of a second-line treatment centre for the severely wounded, and seen enough of death and maiming in both places to last him a life-time. Turning his head from the ward, he looked down at his hands and the blood there and on his white dress shirt reminded him that he could not rest. Not yet. He pushed away from the wall, flinching again at the sharp pain in his side.

Dr. Clarkson called to him from across the floor. "Barrow, we'd better take a look at you, too."

But he ignored the doctor's words and roughly shook off the nurse who tried to detain him. When she grasped at him again, he bolted, and then was outside in the deepening gloom of an early evening with the rain beginning to fall, though only lightly. He didn't care about that. He had to get to the Abbey and relay the news. That was his responsibility and it was one charge today that he was determined to make good on.

Fear gave him the energy that his bruised and battered body had lost. His assailants were long gone now, but the dread that had come over him when under physical attack had not yet dissipated. It always took time. He'd heard people say that death was cumulative, that you felt each past loss with every new one. This was not an experience to which he could relate directly, but suddenly his brain was filled with the other times this had happened and with these memories came the sense of terror that had always accompanied them. He couldn't shake it off. Perhaps he could outrun it and he set out as fast as he could for the Abbey.

And there was guilt, too, his old friend. There was always guilt. These things happened because of who he was. _What_ he was. If he were careful, they didn't happen often. But this time it was all his fault. He shouldn't even have been in the village. And it wasn't enough that he'd paid the price for his carelessness, but that Mr. Carson had been dragged into it, too. He had to tell Mrs. Carson about this himself, but how was he to do that? He wasn't exactly fond of her, not like some of the others were, but she'd always been fair to him and, on occasion, kind. And she didn't deserve this. And His Lordship would be distressed, too. He and Mr. Carson were so close. Barrow didn't want to think about Lady Mary's reaction. They would all be upset and they would all be angry with him.

He couldn't run any more, the stitch in his side was that bad. And it wasn't the only place he hurt, just the place he hurt most. But he had to get to the Abbey. No matter how hard it was going to be, he had to tell them. It was the only thing he _could_ do. His mind was so consumed with this intent that it never occurred to him that he could have telephoned from the hospital, or that perhaps the doctor had already done so. If his fevered mind had allowed him such clarity, he would have brushed it off anyway. This was something that he was honour-bound to do in person.

 **Barrow Reports**

Andy had been clearing away the tea things and was crossing the Great Hall, with Molesley behind him tidying things up in the library, both of them perhaps wondering where the underbutler had disappeared to, when Barrow stumbled through the front door.

The jolt of Barrow violating convention by using the main door was as nothing compared to the impact of the sight of him. Andy froze in place, almost mesmerized by the nightmare vision before him. The usually impeccable underbutler gave every evidence of his involvement in a brawl down a grimy back lane. His crisp livery was soiled and torn. His handsome face was puffy and already a rich tableau of black and blue. And his starched white shirt was ruffled and stained red with blood.

"Mr. Barrow!" Andy's voice gained an octave even in that brief cry. It was a testament to the self-possession he had developed in his months at Downton that he did not drop the tray in his hands, but rather quickly found a flat surface on which to lay it before bounding across the floor to the wounded man. His timing was flawless for Barrow, exhausted by his trek from the village, might otherwise have fallen over.

"What on earth...? Barrow!" Drawn by the footman's cry, Robert Crawley emerged from the library. His eyes widened in shock and he, too, bolted to the underbutler's side, seizing his other arm and helping him to remain on his feet. "I've got him," he told Andy, as he slipped an arm under Barrow's shoulder. "Get him a chair. Quickly!"

Barrow slid into the chair that Andy brought from the telephone desk, but at the same time he tried ineffectually to brush off His Lordship's grasp. "Be careful, my lord," he said, his words coming out haltingly. "There's...blood. You don't want to get it on you..."

"Never mind that," Robert said brusquely, his horror-stricken gaze riveted on Barrow. "What happened, man?"

It was not such a simple question. Barrow struggled to identify the simplest narrative from a jumble of complications. "I...was...set upon in the village, my lord," he gasped, clutching his side where the pain was constant. He coughed. A dry cough. Fortunately _he_ wasn't spilling more blood. "By some men."

"You must see the doctor," Robert declared. It was apparent that the man before him was in some distress. "I'll call the doctor... No. Damn! The phone's been out this afternoon. We'll send someone to the village. Andrew, fetch St..."

"No!" Barrow looked up with alarm. "He's... Dr. Clarkson's with...Mr. Carson."

A few seconds ticked by in silence. "Carson?" Robert said, almost dully.

"He was...caught up in it, too, my lord. He's...at the hospital."

His Lordship's grip tightened on Barrow's shoulder. "How...is he?"

But the underbutler had no answer for him. Squeezing his eyes shut against His Lordship's apprehensions, he said, with a note of anguish, "I don't know."

"Good God!" Shocked though he was, Robert always rose to an occasion. He straightened abruptly and his eyes connected with those of his footman, who stood closely at Barrow's other side. "Andrew," he said sharply, "go downstairs and fetch Mrs. Carson. Tell her to bring her coat and _do not_ tell her why I have summoned her." Andy nodded, spared a glance of concern for Barrow, and then ran off.

"Molesley!"

Molesley had come at the sound of the fracas in the Great Hall and had remained to the side, hovering anxiously but trying to stay out of the way. Now he advanced at His Lordship's command. "Have the car brought round front." Molesley dashed away. He wold have to go to the garage, or perhaps to Mr. Stark's cottage, because of the situation with the telephone.

Robert's gaze returned to Barrow, but his mind was at the hospital with Carson. He had made these assignments deliberately, having no confidence in Molesley's discretion. He did not want Mrs. Carson to hear about this incident from an ill-informed source.

"Papa?" Lady Mary was descending the stairs from the gallery. "I can hear you shouting from my room. Barrow!" Her father had moved to one side and her eyes fell abruptly on the underbutler. She hurried to join them. "What's going on? What's happened?" Her alarm was genuine and well-grounded. Barrow was a hideous sight.

Robert held his hands out to his daughter and drew her toward him. "Barrow and Carson were attacked in the village," Robert said swiftly, but in a quiet, calm voice. At Mary's cry, he tightened his grip on her hands. "Carson is at the ..." He stopped speaking as the green baize door swung open to admit the housekeeper and a heavily-breathing footman. Andrew had made fast work of his task.

Robert let go of his daughter and assumed a formal stance, his shoulders straight, his head up, as he turned to greet Mrs. Carson. This was his role - to exercise leadership in a daunting situation, and to keep everyone else calm by maintaining level-headed himself.

Andy had given nothing away, but Elsie Carson was a perceptive person. Until she had reached the Great Hall, she could believe this odd summons had something to do with the family. Now, in a matter of seconds, as her eyes took in Barrow sprawled unnaturally across a chair that did not usually sit in the middle of the floor and His Lordship standing there looking serious with Lady Mary at his side appearing distressed, she choked. It could only mean... "Where is Mr. Carson?" Her voice was almost as faint as her heart.

Robert advanced to her and reached out to take her hand. "There was an altercation in the village involving Barrow and...Carson. Barrow says they managed to get to the hospital, where...," he deliberately kept his voice steady as he saw the rising panic in the woman's face, "...Carson is in Dr. Clarkson's care. I've call for the car and I'll go with you..."

"No," Lady Mary interrupted. "It's Carson. _I'll_ go with Mrs. Carson." Mary's eyes were round with the fear mirrored in the housekeeper's gaze, but her voice was strong.

Robert thought about challenging her on this. He was worried, too. But he yielded. "All right."

Mary acknowledged his concern. "I'll call as soon as I can," she said.

"The damned phone's out," Robert snapped. "Excuse me." Even in his distress, he was aware that he had spoken harshly before women.

"Then I'll send Stark with a message," Mary said. "I'll run and get my coat."

 **A Common Concern**

A few minutes later Molesley was ushering them out the front door and Mr. Stark was standing by the car, holding the door for Lady Mary. Out of a habit so deeply ingrained that there was no conscious thought involved, Elsie made to go around the back of the vehicle that she might get into the seat beside the chauffeur. She was arrested in this movement by Lady Mary's hand on her arm.

"Please," she said. "Come with me, Mrs. Carson." Mary could hear how stilted her words sounded and hoped the housekeeper did not think it was because she was uncomfortable at the idea of them sitting together. It was only that they were not natural allies, the two of them, their only shared interest their love for the man they were hurrying to see. And it was her concern for Carson, rather than any discomfort with the transgression of social convention, that made her voice unsteady.

Elsie followed Lady Mary's directive. She was too distressed to take much notice of Lady Mary's gesture or how she said it. All she could think about was Charlie. _He was at a meeting in the village_ , she fretted to herself. _How could anything have happened to him?_ It was a terrible thing to be so frightened. She turned to the only solace she knew. _Dear God_ , she prayed, _let him be all right_.

 _He'll be all right_ , Lady Mary told herself. _He'll be all right._ "He'll be all right."

At first she didn't realize she'd said it aloud. And then she cast a glance at Mrs. Carson beside her and realized the woman was looking at her, startled by her voice. "He _must_ be all right," she said firmly.

They both knew there was no certainty to it, but in the moment it was all they had.

 **The Other Casualty**

The door had not closed behind them when Barrow heaved himself to his feet. He stood there, swaying a little.

"Where do you think you're going?" Robert demanded, more curtly than he'd meant. His eyes darted to the door, unsatisfied with his decision to let Mary take the lead in this. "Barrow!" The man had faltered again and Robert leaned in to keep him steady.

"I've got to get cleaned up, my lord," Barrow said, slurring his words a bit around a lip now painfully swollen. "I've got to get things ready for dinner."

"I don't think..."

"Mr. Carson would want..."

"For God's sake, man," Robert declared with some exasperation, "you can't even stand." He pushed Barrow down firmly. "You should be at the hospital yourself. Who knows what injuries you've sustained. Andrew."

Andy, who had returned to Barrow's side, looked up alertly. He'd grown up in East London and had seen a little of fisticuffs, but he'd never set eyes on anyone quite so battered at the underbutler was. The sight frightened him, but not enough to impede his ability to act, especially on Mr. Barrow's behalf. "My lord?"

"Find Pratt," Robert instructed him. "He'll need to get the other car out. Barrow is going to the hospital. I'll go with him." It gave Robert a little satisfaction to say this. He could legitimately accompany Barrow and be there to check up on Carson himself. He hated the idea of waiting.

"I'll go with him, my lord." Andy spoke with a forthright firmness. "We're friends," he said, by way of explanation, with a nod at Barrow. "I want to," he added earnestly.

It was not what Robert wanted, but he could see the sentiment in the young man's eyes. Yes, it was only right that Barrow should be attended by someone he knew well and whose presence might calm and comfort him. Whatever else he might offer, Robert could not extend that to Barrow. "All right," he agreed quietly.

It was several minutes before Molesley and Andrew were helping Barrow into the back of His Lordship's Rolls Royce. Robert had followed them outside and stood there, uncovered, in the light rain, his face grave. He did not give a thought to the fact that the servants were piling into the back of the vehicle reserved exclusively for family use. His only concern was the health of his staff, and the paleness of Barrow's countenance, even in comparison to his usual colourless complexion, was unnerving. Robert also had something else on his mind.

"Andrew, as soon as you've assured Barrow is being attended to at the hospital, please fetch Sergeant Willis. I'll see him here. I want to get him to work on these ruffians as quickly as possible. And you might ask Dr. Clarkson how soon it will be before the sergeant can speak to Barrow and...," his throat constricted a little, "...and to Carson."

"Yes, my lord."

As the car sped off, Molesley rushed to hold the door for His Lordship.

"I can't believe something like that happening in Downton Village, my lord," he said, his revulsion real. Molesley had grown up in the village and had never known of a like incident.

"Nor can I," Robert responded grimly. He turned abruptly to the footman. "Tell Mrs. Patmore the least fuss possible for dinner. I'll inform Her Ladyship of what's happened." He paused and shook his head. "I'm not sure I'll be able to eat a bite."


	3. Chapter 3: At The Hospital

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **Chapter 3 At the Hospital**

 **Relief**

One of the two nurses on duty met Elsie Carson and Lady Mary at the door of the ward and immediately sought to reassure them. Mary consciously hung back and let the nurse take Mrs. Carson to see her husband. She wanted desperately to see him for herself, but she didn't want to push in. At least she could hear him now, his great baritone, even at a low volume, echoing from behind the curtained-off bed at the end of the ward. If he could talk and sound so normal, then he would be all right.

Mary's mind cleared a little. How could something like this have happened in Downton village? And what was Barrow up to, anyway, running all that way because the phone was out. He had looked terrible. In fact, they ought to have brought him back here.

Dr. Clarkson emerged from the cloistered corner and made his way to her. She stared at him in wide-eyed anxiety and felt much as she had as a child when something bad happened. Helpless. But the doctor held up a calming hand.

"Carson was cut with a knife, a long, shallow cut on his left arm. It bled a lot but there's no serious damage. I've stitched him up."

Mary did not breathe easily yet. If it had been only a cut, Carson wouldn't be in a bed. "There's more though. You look worried," she said, frowning a little at Clarkson's serious expression.

"There _is_ more. His blood pressure was through the roof when he came in and that _is_ very dangerous. And he was complaining of a massive headache."

"Carson doesn't suffer from headaches," Mary said immediately, as if correcting the doctor.

He did not take offense. "No. It's the result of the high blood pressure."

"You mean, he might have a stroke." Mary could hear the note of panic hovering just below the surface in her voice.

"Well, it's a possibility," Clarkson said reluctantly, "although I think he's out of immediate danger. But it is vital to keep him absolutely quiet and at rest. It's all we can do. "

Even as he said this they heard, from behind the curtain, Carson's voice raised in aggravation. "Well, what was I _supposed_ to do? Run for the constable and let them kill him in the meantime?"

Dr. Clarkson rolled his eyes. "Not quite the calming influence I'd hoped for," he murmured, with a frown. "I've got to keep that blood pressure coming down."

"Take me to them," Mary suggested. She'd hadn't wanted to interfere, but thought perhaps she could be helpful here. "My grandmother says the presence of strangers keeps us all civil. It's not quite the same thing, but perhaps...you know what I mean."

Clarkson almost smiled. He'd appreciated her discretion, but thought she had a point now. He gestured with his head for her to follow him. The doctor stepped around the curtain first, coming in on the butler resisting the idea of staying where he was.

"You're staying the night whether you want to or not, Carson," he said firmly. " _I'll_ decide when you can go home."

Carson made a disgruntled sound, Mrs. Carson a satisfied one.

"You've another visitor," the doctor added more lightly.

Mary put her head tentatively around the corner. Carson was lying flat on a hospital bed and Mrs. Carson stood beside him, on his right side, holding his hand. He was still quite red in the face, an alarming sight. His livery jacket and starched white shirt were gone, and he was down to his undershirt. Mary had visited his bedroom on a few occasions in the past and seen him in his pajamas, but had never seen him in a state of undress before. It was a little unnerving, for both of them. Her eyes fell on his left arm, vivid against the blindingly white hospital sheets, and she had to quell the shiver of horror that ran through her at the untidy row of stitches that defaced his forearm. She took a deep breath.

"How are you, Carson?" On a few occasions when she was a small girl, Mary had asked him a question in such a high, tremulous voice. _Will he be all right, Mr. Carson_? when her favourite jumping horse had broken his leg. It frightened her to see Carson, a pillar of stability for her, proven vulnerable. She could hope for a better outcome here than with Mercury, but the memory lingered.

He immediately struggled to rise on his elbow, the automatic response to the entry of the family. "My lady."

"Lie down," Dr. Clarkson said peremptorily, before either Mrs. Carson or Lady Mary could say the same.

Reluctantly, he fell back. "I am fine, my lady." He said this automatically, his impulse ever to shield the child he still saw in her from unpleasant reality.

But she only gave him a look at this. She could see he was not fine at all.

"He'll spend the night here," Mrs. Carson said, "and then perhaps he'll be well enough to come home in the morning." She was repeating this mundane point, Mary realized, in order to calm her own apprehensions. Mrs. Carson - Mrs. Hughes as Mary had long known her - was renowned for her composed mien. It was a struggle for her to maintain that in the face of such terrifying circumstances.

"You'll need some things from home," Mary said, trying to keep the ordinary conversation going, so as to perpetuate an atmosphere of normality. "Perhaps I could go fetch them."

"No," Mrs. Carson said distractedly, "I'll do that. You'd never find anything."

Mary doubted that. She knew both the butler and the housekeeper to be meticulously organized people. But she conceded that Mrs. Carson would accomplish the task more efficiently. She was about to suggest that she keep Carson company, when Mrs. Carson spoke again.

"If you would stay with him, my lady. He might listen to you."

Mary smiled gently at this slight rebuke of husband by wife. She had known little of them as a couple before their engagement, having had few opportunities to see them together. Since then, she had studied them whenever possible. He blustered and she tended to dry sarcasm, but Mary had come to appreciate that they loved each other very much and that this was merely the public facade of the way they were together. That they were both affecting this front contributed greatly to calming nerves all around.

"Mrs. Carson, could I ask you to have Mr. Stark run up to the house while you are gathering things from the cottage? His Lordship is very anxious to hear the news and the telephone has been out half the day." She glanced at Carson. "He'd have come himself if there'd been room in the car, Carson."

Mrs. Carson agreed, of course, and with a last glance at her husband, she left. She probably wanted to kiss him, Mary thought, but wouldn't with the others standing here. Well, she would be back and would have more time with him then.

Hearing the sounds of activity at the other end of the ward, Dr. Clarkson stirred. "I'll leave you," he said, " _if_ you will lie down and don't move, Carson. Please try to take it easy. It's the only thing we can do to address the problem."

Carson nodded, but he was still grumpy about it. He looked up to see Mary shaking her head.

"You were always a bad patient," she said.

"You were never much better," he countered. They both smiled. "Thank you for coming, my lady. It wasn't necessary."

But she would have none of it. "Nonsense, Carson. And another thing. Mrs. Carson and I are on the same page here. And you know that I'm at least as fearsome as she is - more so, come to think of it - so don't cross me. For goodness sake, Carson, you've frightened the life out of her. You must be as meek as a lamb when she comes back and agree to do everything she tells you. You owe her that much for giving her the night she'll have."

She spoke with feeling. When her Papa had said that Carson had been injured and was at the hospital, her heart leaped to her throat and her mind had gone in an instant to Matthew. It was not the same kind of incident, but the memory and the feelings associated with it were triggered all the same. Thank God Carson was still in one piece. But his determined stubbornness irritated her, especially as she had seen in Mrs. Carson's eyes on their journey to the hospital the fear that she had once known in her own heart.

He had the wherewithal to look chastened at that. He never wanted to do anything that brought grief to his beloved wife.

Mary relented a little. "That's what happens when you love someone," she said softly. And she took his hand in hers, soothingly stroking the back of it with her other hand. It calmed them both.

 **Uncertainty**

Andy was just that much taller than Barrow that supporting him with an arm over his own shoulders made the footman have to crouch a little uncomfortably. But it was little enough to do for Thomas. And Andy noticed, too, that the underbutler had lost a lot of even the little energy he had had on arriving at Downton. It was a relief to hand him over to the competent hands of Dr. Clarkson and his staff. Between the doctor and the footman, they brought Barrow into an examination room off the ward where there was better light.

Andy had his orders. But as doctor and nurse went about removing or cutting away Barrow's livery, shirt, and undershirt, so as to make a proper assessment, the young man hovered. It was bloody awful, this, and he wanted to make sure Mr. Barrow was all right. And Andy appreciated that there was no one for Barrow here. Mr. Carson had his wife and even Lady Mary, and there was His Lordship back at the Abbey fretting over him as well. But the underbutler had no one. There were reasons for that and all, and Andy had gotten some inkling of them, even in his short tenure at Downton. But it was just wrong for anyone to have to face such an ordeal alone.

Perhaps Dr. Clarkson discerned the footman's concern. Or perhaps he just wanted to clear his surgery. "He's in good hands, Andrew." The doctor's well-modulated voice was a tonic to panic, his soft Scottish burr enhancing the tranquilizing effect.

"Will he be all right?" Andy spoke to the doctor, but he continued to stare at Barrow.

"I _am_ right here," Barrow interjected, with as much exasperation as he could manage with his thick lip. "And I'm not...," he flinched as the doctor passed a hand over the right side of his rib cage, "...dead yet."

Andy grinned at this sign of life and irritability. At least Mr. Barrow _sounded_ like himself.

"No," Dr. Clarkson said emphatically. "Nor any time soon either."

"His Lordship asked me to fetch the constable," Andy said.

"Then perhaps you should get on with it," the doctor encouraged him.

After Andy had left, Dr. Clarkson continued his examination for several minutes, the two men exchanging only cursory remarks relating to what did or did not hurt.

"Well, they worked you over pretty well," the doctor said at last. "And you've got a couple of broken ribs. I'll tape those up. Otherwise there's some bad bruising and a wrenched wrist. But no other signs of internal injury." He stood back. "I know it may not seem so but, under the circumstances, you were lucky."

"And Mr. Carson?"

"He may have a few bruises, and there is that cut on his arm. But the danger there..."

Barrow's head came up sharply at the word _danger_.

"...is his blood pressure. You must both stay here tonight, but in the morning I'll discharge you to the Abbey. You should stay in bed for a few days and there'll be no heavy lifting in your near future. Not for weeks."

They would not welcome that news at the Abbey, Barrow thought, their two senior male staff members out of action for the foreseeable future.

"And Mr. Carson?" Barrow said again, most insistently.

Dr. Clarkson shrugged. "I'll see how he is in the morning. It's imperative that he have bed-rest and I'm not sure he'll stay put if I send him home."

"He won't...die, will he?"

The doctor shook his head firmly. "I'll never say never, but I'm _fairly_ confident he'll be fine. It must have been quite a dust-up to raise his blood pressure like that. What happened?"

Again Barrow reached for the simple answer. "Four men. I'd never seen them before. They set on me - maybe they didn't know the difference between a servant and a gentleman and thought they'd take some brass off me. Then Mr. Carson came along."

Barrow spoke agitatedly, his eyes shifting from one thing in the room to another. When he glanced up at the doctor, he saw a pair of keen and inquisitive blue eyes staring at him. The story didn't quite ring true. Why would thieves take the time to beat a man almost senseless? Surely they would have grabbed his pocketwatch - which was dangling from the remnants of his vest - and run for it? But the doctor did not press the issue. He was accustomed to people and their secrets.

It took a while to get Barrow's ribs taped and all his bruises attended to. Barrow kept his ears attuned to sounds in the ward just beyond the half-open door. He heard Mrs. Carson return, heard the murmured conversations - indistinct from this distance - between husband and wife, heard Lady Mary pacing as she waited beyond the curtained-off corner for Mrs. Carson. Barrow hadn't thought to ask for any of _his_ things to be brought and Andy had dashed off without any indication that he would be back tonight. The hospital had some extra robes and a nurse got him one of these.

Dr. Clarkson escorted him to the bed made ready for him, at a little distance from where Mr. Carson lay behind the curtain. As he followed where the doctor led, Lady Mary approached him.

"How are you, Barrow?" There was a solicitous note to her voice. Barrow could almost believe she cared. There was nothing between them, nothing to link them as she was linked to Mr. Carson or even to Anna, but Barrow was fond of Master George, and Lady Mary knew it. So that was something.

"I'm all right, my lady," he responding, sounding almost normal. It was incumbent upon the servant to affect normality even when it was patently obvious the opposite was the case.

"He isn't," the doctor corrected bluntly, having no qualms about imposing on the aristocracy's sensibilities, "but he will be. With rest."

Lady Mary nodded. "We'll see that he gets it." She was almost herself again, still concerned for Carson, but more confident that the crisis had passed for him. She had left him so that Mrs. Carson might make him comfortable for the night and have an intimate moment with her husband.

When the housekeeper appeared, the doctor ducked in for a last check on the patient that he might report to the family before they left. Barrow listened as eagerly as did the two women.

"I foresee no problems," Dr. Clarkson said confidently. "He's in quite good health generally. The headache has diminished and his blood pressure has come down dramatically, which is what we want to see. There will be a nurse on duty all night and," his hand swept the ward which, apart from Barrow and Mr. Carson, was empty, "she will maintain a careful watch. I'm not far away. And _our_ telephone is working fine," he added. He had said all of this directly to Mrs. Carson. "Try to get a good night's rest yourself. Call first thing in the morning for an update. I'll be in at seven and I'll make a decision them about how much longer they both should stay."

With that the Downton contingent left and shortly thereafter, after checking on both men again, Dr. Clarkson also took his leave. The light in the ward dimmed, with only the lamp lit at the nurse's station and the light coming in through the windows from a full moon. The nurse diligently looked in on Mr. Carson every fifteen minutes for the first hour.

Barrow feigned sleep when she came to his side, but he remained wide awake. The doctor had tended to his wounds as best he could, but Barrow's body seemed to ache more than ever since he had stopped moving. And started thinking. His mind was all awhirl.

He had not seen Mr. Carson since they'd come in together. His last glimpse of the butler had left him with the impression of a man _in extremis_. They'd all said he would be all right. But Barrow wanted to know this for himself.

 **Awkwardness**

Carson lay flat on his back, staring up into the dimness - the moonlight from a nearby window tempered the darkness - and wondered how it had come to this. By this hour of any night, he ought to be finishing up with his dinner at the Abbey, or perhaps walking to his cottage - _their_ cottage - with his dear wife, and looking forward to the now every-day sweet indulgence of spending several hours alone with her. Instead he was on his own for the first night since they'd married and he didn't think very much of that.

His arm hurt, despite the pain killer the doctor had given him. And his headache had not entirely dissipated - he had dissimulated a bit with the doctor on that. He was not given to headaches, so he resented this one very much. And...though he hardly dared admit it to himself, he was still shaken by the episode that had sent him here and its impact on his blood pressure. Truth to tell, he feared the consequences of the latter far more than the momentary surge of exhilaration / terror - two sides of the same coin, one might say - of the altercation itself.

Compounding his concerns was the frustration of knowing that the only thing he could do about any of it was the thing he found hardest to do - nothing. If he lay here quietly all night and even slept a little, he _might_ in the morning find his internal equilibrium restored enough to convince the doctor to let him go home. Then he could enjoy the pleasant surroundings of his own cottage and the even more pleasant prospect of his wife's attentions and ministrations while he rested still more. He remembered with dismay the comparable episode he'd had during the war. They would make him stay off work for a week, if not more. What tedium.

Incidentally his mind wandered to Barrow, never a subject on which he liked to dwell. They'd made such a fuss over him that he hadn't had a chance to ask how the underbutler was. But he did not want to think about the man, especially in relation to what had happened earlier. Doing so brought too many unsavoury considerations to mind. Better to avoid it altogether.

The nurse checked on him _again_ and then mercifully withdrew, indicating that she had some things to review in the pharmacy cupboard but letting him know that if he shouted, she would hear him. He refrained from telling her that he did not shout and he had no intention of requiring her presence. Her footfalls faded and then there was a blessed silence.

He lay there, eyes open, trying not to think about things. And then he frowned. A shadow was moving across the stream of moonlight and it wasn't the nurse.

"Have you come to finish me off, Mr. Barrow?" The outline was so familiar. He would know Barrow's outline, and that of almost everyone else at Downton, from a distance.

Barrow stopped at the foot of his bed and did not respond immediately. Had it been anyone else, Carson might have thought them taken aback by his flippancy. But he did not have to worry about Barrow taking his words the wrong way.

"I wanted to see how you were, Mr. Carson." The underbutler spoke in that distinct manner he had, his tone a measured one, every word clearly articulated.

Carson raised his hands in a gesture of 'as you see,' and then winced, having forgotten about his arm. "Ow! Move over to the side, Mr. Barrow, so that I don't have to strain my neck to look at you."

Barrow obliged him and then the light did fall on his face. Carson's eyes widened in shock. "You look terrible! Are you sure you should be up?" He hadn't meant it as an invitation to sit, but Barrow unaccountably drew up a nearby chair and did just that.

"You do look awful," Carson said again, more conversationally this time.

"I don't feel very well either," Barrow responded, in an equally moderate voice.

"No." Well. How could he?

Silence prevailed for a moment.

"How is your hand...arm?" Barrow's eyes traversed the long row of stitches on Carson's exposed arm.

The butler shrugged. "Just a flesh wound, fortunately. No muscle damage. I'll soon be as good as new." Carson was quintessentially English and that meant an assertion of soundness no matter what the circumstances.

"With a scar." Barrow would know about things like that, with his war injury.

"There are worse things." Carson did not want to make small talk with Mr. Barrow, but he wanted even less to speak with him about what had happened to them earlier and, worse still, _why_ it had happened. Barrow wasn't usually one for introspective _post mortems_ , but you never knew.

"What about your heart?" Barrow asked. "It was pounding. Earlier."

"It's calmed down again." It was very odd. Was Barrow concerned for him? Carson did not know that he was comfortable with this. He and Barrow coexisted best in a relationship of mutual indifference. "And the doctor's gone home, so he must think I'll live through the night."

Barrow nodded seriously, apparently oblivious to the butler's affected casualness toward his own health. This made Carson even more determined to control the conversation, lest it veer in a direction he did not want to take.

"Are you...all right, Mr. Barrow?"

"A couple of broken ribs," Barrow admitted. "And some bruises. Lots of bruises."

"Well," Carson said again. Barrow was fortunate at that. Carson had seen the way those ruffians were going at him. But this conversation was tortuous. He had to think of something to say that met the solemnity requirements of the moment but did not stray into dangerous waters.

"Change hasn't affected just them, you know. It's taken us down as well."

Barrow looked up sharply, confused. "What do you mean?"

"There was a time, Mr. Barrow, when the position of butler of Downton Abbey and, I daresay, the underbutler, too, were ones of authority in the village. No one would dared have challenged us. Our status was secure. But that kind of respect is gone. His Lordship no longer holds the same place in the hearts of his tenants, and we are no longer untouchable."

Carson did not know if that hit the right note for Barrow or if the younger man had realized he was not going to get whatever it was he was really looking for, but it had the desired effect. Abruptly - as abruptly as he could manage in his condition - Barrow got to his feet.

"I'll leave you to get some sleep, Mr. Carson," he said softly. And then he melted into the shadows.

They both spent an uneasy night.


	4. Chapter 4: Something About Barrow

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **Chapter 4 Something About Barrow**

 **Barrow's Return**

Barrow returned to Downton the morning after the incident. When Mrs. Carson called about her husband, Dr. Clarkson brought her up to date on Barrow, too. She reported to His Lordship and he sent Mr. Stark in the car for the underbutler. For the second time in his life apart from official duties, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Barrow entered the Abbey through the main door. His Lordship welcomed him back.

Barrow took the opportunity to apologize for being unable to attend to his duties. Even without the broken ribs and the wrenched wrist, his bruised face and black eye would have banned him from public view. The male servants were all supposed to be handsome.

His Lordship waved off Barrow's apology. "Not at all, Barrow. It's not as if this was your fault."

Barrow wished His Lordship hadn't said that.

Andy and Miss Baxter were on hand to escort him up the servants' staircase to his room. With no butler or underbutler, the footmen were busier than ever over the next few days, but Andy checked on him when he could. Miss Baxter had more time and was especially solicitous of him. She was determined to be his friend. But when she asked about the incident and why it had happened, Barrow did not enlighten her. He did appreciate her attention though, because he was more comfortable with her than anyone else. But he did not thank her for prevailing on Molesley to look in whenever he could. Surely he did not deserve _that_.

His favourite visitor was Master George, who came with his mother.

"I was three years old the first time I visited Carson downstairs," Lady Mary told Barrow. "I don't see why Master George cannot come to see you on his own. Only don't bother Barrow too often, George," she said to her son. "He must have time to recover." She expressed outrage over what had happened, but did not dwell on it. Barrow was grateful for that and for her encouragement of Master George. The boy was the only person at Downton with whom Barrow felt he could be himself. Their relationship was a blank slate that they were only slowly filling in, which was a relief to a man with a history everywhere.

And Sergeant Willis came, too. The stocky man settled himself in the hard chair by Barrow's bedside and diligently copied the facts into his little book. Barrow's story had hardly altered since he had related it to Lord Grantham. Four men came out of nowhere, set upon him in the lane, perhaps with the intent to rob him, and then Mr. Carson had intervened and they had run away. "And here we are," he concluded.

Sergeant Willis had a coughing fit - Barrow had to get up and get him some water - and then tapped his pencil on the page. " _Did_ they come out of nowhere? Had you seen them around the village?" These were innocuous questions, but Barrow bristled.

"I didn't know them," he said emphatically. "I'd never seen them before."

"Until they came at you out of the gloom."

"No." And then he remembered. "Well. There were four men in the post office when I went in. I had to mail something. That's why I was in the village." He was a little defensive on that point. He shouldn't have been there at all.

"Ah!" Willis wrote that down. "And you think it might be them?"

But Barrow was less definitive on that point.

Willis moved on. "Any idea what they were after?"

Barrow shrugged. "Can't be sure. Robbery most likely."

The sergeant left and Barrow breathed a sigh of relief.

Sergeant Willis spoke with Mr. Carson later that day. The substance of that conversation worried the underbutler. What would Mr. Carson have said? But the sergeant did not reappear with more questions. And then Molesley told him that the man had come down with the flu and that the investigation was suspended for the time being.

"His Lordship is furious," Molesley recounted. "It's the biggest crime, the most violent crime we've had in Downton in His Lordship's lifetime. Possibly ever. And nothing's being done."

Barrow was not unhappy with this news. He hoped the whole thing would fade away with his bruises. He did not think that either Mr. Carson or His Lordship would let that happen, although Mr. Carson... He did wonder.

 **Carson's Return**

Carson had a slightly different road to recovery. He stayed in the hospital most of the next day, waging a not entirely successful campaign against his own impatience, the indulgence of which delayed Dr. Clarkson's release order. After swearing an oath that he would not darken the door of his pantry for one week complete, and agreeing to a reduced workload the week after that, Carson secured the doctor's permission to retire to the cottage.

There he was attended to with diligence by a number of people. He saw such attention both as an acknowledgment of his status and an imposition on his independence. Elsie was with him all night, of course, but she brought home her account books that she might spend part of the first two days with him. Mr. Bates came round every day with the newspapers, which they read in silence over tea that the valet prepared. Bates offered the pleasure of company without any of the social burdens that usually accompanied it. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy kept him well fed, relieving his wife of that worry. If only the deliveryman were more often Andrew and less often Molesley. Carson fancied that his blood pressure began to climb whenever he heard Molesley's sing-song voice, but Elsie rebuked him when he said this. His Lordship also looked in. Elsie only rolled her eyes when her husband intimated that His Lordship's presence had a calming effect on him. Lady Mary came, too, and without Master George. She knew Carson to be very fond of children, but realized this was not the moment.

Of course, Sergeant Willis came by. In fact, Carson was hardly settled in his own bed when the man appeared. Carson been ill very rarely during his life in service at Downton and on those few occasions he had tolerated the presence of others in his room as a necessity. He found himself less accepting of the presence of the local constable in his bedchamber now, regarding it as a preserve exclusive to wife and himself. But he had promised to stay in bed at least for the first twenty-four hours and the sergeant insisted, so he grudgingly yielded.

Their interview was brief for Carson had little to say.

The sergeant looked up from his notes. "That's even less than Mr. Barrow told me."

Carson shrugged. "My involvement was less than his."

"Could you identify them if you saw them again?"

"No." Carson was firm on this and it frustrated him. "It was too dark and I was rather more concerned with what they were doing, than who they were." This was true. "Mr. Barrow would know more. And he is very observant."

"Any idea of a motive?" The constable threw this out as a matter of course. How could Mr. Carson, who came in late on the fight, have any idea?

Carson hesitated for an awkward moment. "No," he said. "They were ruffians," he added fiercely. "Toughs with no regard for the law. See that you catch them, sergeant."

"I'll do my best."

Carson was glad to see the back of the sergeant. The man had coughed throughout their interview and Carson did not want to catch what he had and have his return to work delayed.

Barrow did not come to visit him at the cottage. Of course the man had his own recovery to make. Indeed, his physical wounds were more grievous. Small blessings. Elsie reported on the underbutler's condition - she looked in on him every day, too - but her husband did not ask after him.

 **Back, But Not to Normal**

Dr. Clarkson came daily to check his blood pressure, but refused to admit any alteration to his initial pronouncement regarding Carson's work schedule. So it was one full week before he sat again in his pantry and even then he was not at liberty to take up all his duties. And there were other irritations.

Molesley's cheery accounts of the meals upstairs grated on his nerves. Andrew was more circumspect and Carson liked him the more for it. Barrow couldn't be upstairs either, at least not when the family were about. For a few days, Carson thought that this accounted for what seemed to be the underbutler's omnipresence in his life. Then he realized that did not explain everything, and he was troubled.

He took it up, in a way, with Elsie one evening at the cottage as she helped him undress for bed. Almost two weeks after the incident in the village lane he didn't really need the assistance. But he liked the additional attention from her. She knew it, too, but enjoyed indulging him. Was this not why they had married, after all?

"There's something peculiar about Barrow," he said, as she buttoned up his pyjama shirt. No, that wasn't quite what he wanted to say. "More so than normal...than usual."

"What do you mean?" She heard the unease in his voice and was glad he wanted to talk about it. Her very social husband had been quiet of late.

"He's been watching me."

She stared at him for a moment and then shook her head. "Get into bed." She held the blankets up for him. "What's wrong with that? He's always watched you."

That was true, to a point. "It's not like that," he said. "He used to watch me to learn how to do things. It saved him compromising his dignity by having to ask for instruction." He did not hide the disdain in his voice. He remembered an exchange with Barrow a few years earlier, when the underbutler had observed him coaching the footman Alfred Nugent and admitted half-jokingly and perhaps wistfully that the butler had never done as much for him. Carson had stamped out that flash of self-pity by reminding Barrow that he had never asked for help, as Alfred did.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Elsie said, not understanding his concern. "You've always liked a quick learner."

He ignored this. "Now he just... _watches_ me. When he thinks I don't see him. I look up and he moves off, but I know he was there. It's unsettling."

Now she was in bed beside him and adjusting the bedclothes around him. This was still difficult for him to do with his wounded arm. His mental distress touched her heart and she reached out to stroke his face, smoothing out the worry lines there. "Why is it bothering you?"

He made an indignant sound. "How would you like to have someone following you about, staring at you all the time?"

"He follows you, too?" She hadn't noticed Barrow doing this.

"Well, it feels like it. He's always _there_."

She wondered. The two men were downstairs more often than was the case in ordinary circumstances. With restricted duties upstairs they were bound to see more of each other. But she thought there was more to her husband's agitation than Barrow's presence in itself.

They hadn't spoke much about the incident, she and Charlie, not in any meaningful way. He complained a little about the discomfort from his arm and rather more stridently about the doctor's ridiculous proscriptive directions. And he railed about the incompetence of Sergeant Willis, who had come down with the flu at a most inconvenient moment, and that the ruffians would likely never be brought to justice. But he had been remarkably reticent on the incident itself.

"Maybe it has something to do with what happened," she said bluntly, watching him closely. He stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but enough that she saw it. "Do you think that likely?"

He did not answer her, which only convinced her that the dark event in which her husband and Mr. Barrow had been caught up was indeed at the root of this new dynamic between the men. Or, at least, that Charlie thought it might be. And yet he said nothing. Was it that he did not _want_ to talk about it? she wondered. Or that he did not know how? As educated and articulate as he was, she knew there were some things for which Charles Carson just did not have the words.

Or perhaps it was that he was talking to the wrong person.

"Maybe you ought to have it out with Mr. Barrow," she suggested sensibly.

"That is the very last thing I want to do," he said grimly, and slid down beneath the covers.


	5. Chapter 5: The Dark Mines of Character

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **Chapter 5 In the Dark Mines of Character**

 **Barrow**

Barrow had determined that he must speak to Mr. Carson.

To do so went against the grain with him. Barrow did not converse easily with anyone at Downton Abbey, but Mr. Carson inhabited a particularly remote sphere. They had known each other for eighteen years and worked together in the same house, including part of Barrow's wartime service, for almost that long. And did not like each other. Barrow did not feel slighted by this lack of regard on the butler's part because it _was_ mutual. There was some measure of respect on both sides. They were men who could get a job done, and they appreciated that in the other and little else. So long as they could exist on the peripheries of one another's world, things were manageable between them.

There had been moments over the years when events did not run so smoothly and those worlds threatened to collide. Before the war, Barrow had violated the family's trust through thieving, the ultimate transgression of a servant, and Mr. Carson had been prepared to take action against him. But then Britain's ultimatum to Germany had expired and changed everything. They had been at odds professionally during the war when Barrow's appointment as manager of the convalescent home run out of Downton had infringed upon the butler's oversight of the house. An even more serious episode came after the war in an incident involving former footman Jimmy Kent and the overt revelation of Barrow's nature. Barrow and Mr. Carson had had a frank conversation then and clearly established their boundaries, and then the crisis had passed and they had never spoken of it again.

For the few days immediately after the incident in the village, Barrow thought it might just go away. The only people who knew what had really happened that afternoon were not talking about it, some - the perpetrators - for obvious reasons, and others - Barrow, Mr. Carson, and the postmistress, too - for reasons of their own. But then he realized that he himself could not leave it alone.

Dwelling on it as he did, Barrow wondered about Mr. Carson and whether he, too, was finding it more difficult to get past it this time. He started to watch the butler, looking for signs of internal discord. He thought there might be something, but he could not discern unease from grumpiness. But Mr. Carson _had_ noticed his surveillance and was annoyed by it. Barrow had then to make a decision about whether to give it up and accept Mr. Carson's apparent wish to paper it over as before, or address it forthrightly and risk the butler's disapprobation. When peace of mind continued to elude him, he chose to break with his own inclinations and speak.

And so he found himself outside Mr. Carson's pantry door one morning, trying to find the...what? temerity? courage?...to knock.

 **Carson**

From the desk where he was bent over the accounts ledger, Carson saw the shadow fall across his doorway and knew without looking up that it was Barrow. He recognized that outline here as easily as he had done that evening in the hospital, and before that in the shadowed lane. Even bent double in pain, Barrow had been identifiable as Barrow.

He had told Elsie that he _did not_ want have a conversation with Barrow, and he had meant it. If only they could ignore... _it_ \- he did not have words for it - then it might go away, as it had done the last time. He had forgotten, or was wilfully ignoring the fact that it had not just gone away then either. There had been quite a to-do first and several other parties, including Elsie and Mr. Bates, had been drawn in before His Lordship had stage-managed a solution that had saved Barrow at the cost of the interests of almost everyone else. But in Carson's memory, the thing had been quietly swept beneath the carpet again where, if it must exist at all, it was better off.

He could put Barrow off. His authority was such that he could refuse to engage with the underbutler, and while policing that might be annoying, if would be worth it if it wore Barrow down and let the thing die. But Carson was not in the habit of avoiding things, even if they were uncomfortable. One could not manage a great house while walking on eggshells. So he squared his shoulders and, without looking up, addressed the phantom just beyond the door.

"Come in then, Mr. Barrow. I haven't got all day."

 **Just Anyone**

Barrow's innate gracefulness was impeded somewhat by his still-stiff ribs, but he moved smoothly into the room nonetheless.

"Will this take long?" Carson spoke curtly and did so deliberately. He did not want to encourage Barrow.

The underbutler lifted his shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug.

Carson yielded to the inevitable. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Ought you then to close the door?" he said quietly.

Barrow did so and when he returned, Carson gestured him to the chair before the desk. He did this in consideration of Barrow's condition, for the man still looked uncomfortable.

Then they stared at each other for a long moment.

"How are you Mr. Carson?"

Barrow could see how he was, but Carson understood what he was asking. "My blood pressure is fine. The cut on my arm is mending. I have no other complaints." He spoke almost mechanically, his thoughts indiscernible behind an impassive mask. "How are you, Mr. Barrow? You continue to look the worse for wear."

"Bruises," Barrow replied offhandedly. "And it takes bones a little time to knit. But my wrist is right as rain again. But I feel almost normal again."

 _Normal._ He had said it without thinking, but it electrified both of them for an instant.

"We've not talked about it, Mr. Carson," Barrow said, determinedly maintaining eye contact.

Carson struggled to do the same. "There has been no reason," he said coolly.

Barrow disagreed, but chose not to confront that question directly. "I only want to ask you, Mr. Carson. Why did you come to help me?"

This caught Carson off guard. It was not the conversational direction he had anticipated. Barrow's question puzzled him. "I didn't," he said bluntly. "That is, I did not come to help _you_ specifically. I saw a bunch of hooligans punching the daylights out of someone and I intervened." And that was true.

This admission did not seem to deter the underbutler.

"But you...heard...what they were saying to me." Although the doors were firmly shut, he spoke softly as though there was still need to be discreet. "You knew what it was about."

Carson inclined his head. "I did."

"And you still got involved."

The butler's head came up sharply. Barrow's words jarred him from a distant disdain to mingled indignation and disbelief. "What do you mean, _still_?" he demanded. And then blurted, "What kind of a man would I be if I had just walked on by and ignored it all?"

It was a rhetorical question and he expected no answer, but he could not help but notice the reaction his exclamation had evoked in Barrow. The other man's face tightened. Carson saw there, for just a moment, more feeling than he'd ever seen save for the night of Lady Sybil's death. He remembered being struck that that young woman's magical touch had affected even Barrow's hardened heart.

It took Barrow a moment to find his voice that he might respond to the question Carson had not really meant to ask. ""A man like my father," he said, and old patterns reasserted themselves as his jaw jutted out and his lips pursed in that sulky look he got when he was reprimanded or insulted. "He did just that. Once."

It was as if the words came to Carson through a thick substance that obscured their clarity. He did not quite understand, not immediately. "What do you mean?" And then he did understand, and regretted asking. He did not care and most assuredly did not want to know.

"Once," Barrow said again, and in a voice remarkable for its equanimity, although the pain of that long ago incident remained with him. "When I was fifteen. He was coming home from the pub one night and saw some boys roughing me up, calling me names." He paused. "You know what names. He saw us. I saw him. I...called out to him and he...just kept walking. _He_ pretended he didn't see. He was hoping, you see, that they could do what he couldn't. Change me. Make me like him." Barrow surprised himself with his even tone, but thought it might be because he was talking to Mr. Carson, and it was never proper to go all emotional with Mr. Carson.

Carson heard these words clearly and his lip curled in disgust. He turned his head away, as if from something repulsive. There it was. The ugly thing he did not want to confront. But he could not say nothing.

"I'm...sorry, Mr. Barrow. That is...must have been...very unpleasant."

It was a vast understatement of the feelings anyone might have had in the circumstances, but Barrow was not put off by Mr. Carson's characteristic restraint. There was something else he wanted to say.

"I want to...thank you." He spoke the words with humility and sincerity, and doubted that that had ever been the case before in this room. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

Carson appreciated the novelty of Barrow's demeanour, but he recoiled all the same. "There is...no need, Mr. Barrow," he said brusquely, trying to impose a normality on this unprecedented exchange that resisted such control. "I would have done the same for anyone."

"That's just it," Barrow said, and these words secured him the butler's attention once more. "I'm not usually included in that category. That's why I want to thank you."

 **The Dark Mine of Character**

She could see that he was in a mood, but they'd no time to talk about it at work and work was no place to discuss anything anyway, not when they had the cottage. He went home early, the last day he was required by Dr. Clarkson to do so, and she was glad on both counts.

But no matter where they discussed things, Elsie was determined to get to the bottom of his current malaise. He'd tried to manage it on his own and she'd let him, but he had failed and that was done. Now they would work this out together. She told him so as they put the dishes to soak in the sink after an almost silent supper. To her surprise, he agreed. So he was even more desperate to unburden himself than she had anticipated.

They went into their sitting room and sat together on the sofa. She wondered that he did not pour them a glass of sherry, or even suggest it. He must be agitated indeed.

"Mr. Barrow insisted on speaking with me today," he said, taking one of her hands in his and stroking it gently. He was trying to soothe himself. "It was a terrible affair."

She put her head to one side, looking at him. She knew he did not care for Mr. Barrow and so was puzzled that the man should cause him such turmoil. "About what happened, then," she said. There was no need to be more explicit.

"It was. Of course it was." He paused. How did he put this to his wife? "Those...men. It wasn't robbery. And it wasn't a random act. They had...targeted Barrow. They were...I don't know the word to use...punishing? persecuting? bullying, perhaps?...him. That's what it was about."

"Because of...who he is." She knew about Barrow. Almost everyone at Downton did.

" _What_ he is," he corrected her abruptly. He ignored the look this evoked from her.

"This is what he told you today?" she surmised.

"Oh, no. I knew it then."

Her eyebrows went up.

"I heard them...what they were saying as they...hit him."

"Dear God." She took a deep breath and focused her attention on her husband once more. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shook his head. "When you acknowledge something," he said heavily, "you must deal with it. I did not want to deal with this."

"But...it's been bothering you so much. And why? It's not as if you didn't know about Mr. Barrow. What is it you have to deal with?"

They sat closely together, their hands entwined, his moving nervously over hers. He looked up, his dark eyes boring into the startling clarity of her own deep blue gaze. "When he thanked me today, I felt a fraud. I told him the truth of the matter: I'd have done it for anyone, it wouldn't matter who or why. I saw a wrong being perpetrated. It was as simple as that."

"But...?"

"In the moment, I thought of nothing but what was happening before me - several men beating up another. There was no time to think about _why_ they were doing it. But afterward...it occurred to me later that it was not so simple after all."

His words troubled her and she was suddenly wary of proceeding, but knew they must get to the bottom of this. "I don't understand."

His gaze did not waver. "The thing is, when it comes to that, I'm on _their_ side."

His blunt statement prompted her to respond in kind. "I beg your pardon!"

"I don't mean I would _do_ that," he said, maintaining an even tone. "And I would not and never have spoken to anyone in such vulgar terms. But fundamentally, I am on _their_ side, Elsie. And when he...thanked me, I felt such a hypocrite."

It was her impulse to rush in, in the first instance to berate him, and then to rationalize, to explain him to himself, because she could almost see how he was seeing this. He was wrong about this, she told herself fiercely. But now was not the moment. Not yet. She took a deep breath, but before she could saying anything, he was speaking again.

"I thought, when he came in today, that I would have to confront this, and I didn't want to do so, any more than I have wanted to confess it to you."

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. Whatever he said, and she was convinced he was not seeing clearly on this, it was important that he had wanted to talk to her about it.

But he had something else on his mind. "Do you know," he said, with a little more forcefully, "I have never wanted to know a single thing about Barrow's life, and now I know far too much."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"I don't like to break his confidence. He did not give me leave to do so, although neither did he swear me to secrecy. But I...I want to talk to you, so I must ask that you will stay silent on it."

"I will."

So he told her what Barrow had said to him and watched the horror of it fill her countenance, as he knew it would.

"Poor Thomas." The insight impelled her to revert to a more personal level. She had known Barrow as long as her husband had and had much the same impressions of him. But she had ever been more ambivalent because she had discerned his nature much earlier and believed the innate hostility of the world in which he lived and the inherent limitations of his life as a result had scarred him. And perhaps she had suspected it to have marred his family life, too, although this was the first firm evidence of it.

"I feel sorry for him, with a father like that," she went on. "It gives you some insight into the way he is. Temperamentally, I mean," she added, so as to distinguish it from the other thing. This revelation about Barrow upset her and it had upset him, too. And yet... "Charlie?"

He continued to meet her gaze, determined that she should know the truth and he should face her reaction unflinchingly. "I was appalled by what he told me. And I had said, quite clearly and before he brought his father into it, that I could never have stood by and watched that happen to anyone. And it remains true. In that moment, there in my office, I was as shocked as you are now."

She waited, not conscious of the fact that she was holding her breath.

"It was only later, when I thought about it, that I wondered if I didn't have some sympathy with the man."

They had come to it at last. Elsie felt a reflexive revulsion of her own, but sought to suppress it. Her husband had ever been more open with her than she was with him. It was a reflection, perhaps, of the simple and profound trust he had in her and in her love for him. And yet he had struggled with this aspect of himself and withheld it from her. It was imperative that she recognize that it _was_ a struggle, that she listen to him in his turmoil, and that she not sit in judgment upon him as he wrestled with it.

"Tell me," she said patiently.

The tautness of his shoulders eased just a little in acknowledgment of her forbearance. He knew this was a challenge for her. "It's only that...I don't know that I'd have been much different if I were his father." There was a sorrowful note in his voice. He knew what he was saying. It was not what he knew or had learned about Barrow that was troubling him; it was what he was learning of himself.

"You'd never..."

"No, I wouldn't," he agreed firmly. "I would not stand by and let someone hurt my son. And I would never have beaten a child either. I'm not like that. I know that. But I think I understand the mind and the motives of a man who would, in those circumstances."

She did not agree with him about himself, thought he was taking too much on himself here, perhaps still in shock at the violence that had caught him up, and Barrow with him, in its frightening embrace. But this was not the moment to disabuse him. He needed to say this.

"I don't think I could have tolerated that...behaviour...in a son," he said firmly.

"You speak about it as though it were a decision that Barrow or...someone like him...makes. But it just is."

"So you say."

"Not only me." She ignored his sceptical look. "And what would you have done then?" She wasn't convinced a conversation about a hypothetical situation was useful here, but she didn't know where else to go. They seemed to have moved beyond Barrow and were now burrowing deeply into the mine of character. And like all mines, it was a dark place, potentially rich in treasures and unforeseen dangers alike.

"When you cannot...coexist, you ought to...separate, rather than resort to violence or unkindness. I suppose I would have sent a boy like that away to school."

"And let someone else 'make a man of him'? I don't suppose it would ever occur to you to leave him be!"

"How?" He almost shouted this and they both pulled back a little in consequence. Their hands fell apart. "Parents have a responsibility to and for their children, Elsie," he said heatedly. "They _must_ act in their best interests." He rarely spoke with such vehemence.

"And you think some kind of disciplinary action, short of physical violence, some program of regimentation, would achieve that? I can't believe that a man as kind and sensitive as you are could think that way."

He was not at all put off by this rebuke. "I cannot believe that a woman as grounded in reality as you are could think otherwise. This... _behaviour_ or _nature_...isn't some abstract issue. It is a practice that is _against the law_. Men go to prison for it. They are sentenced to hard labour for it. When they're not being reviled by their fellows and beaten by thugs in the street. No responsible parent could do otherwise than their very best to curb...whatever it is...and to guide or push or..."

"Force?"

"Yes. _Force_...a son to conform. It would unconscionable not to do so."

Well. This was a revelation, indeed, but she remained convinced he was doing himself an injustice, in part if not in whole. But another concern intruded now. He had grown increasingly agitated through this exchange and his colour was up. It was time to bring this to an end and to calm him down again. But there was something about it all that confused her still and she did not want to let it go.

"If you think that way, why are you so upset by all of this?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps recognizing the level of consternation to which he had risen. "Because it is all so ugly. I saw something very ugly in that lane, Elsie. And Barrow's story of his father sickened me."

This clarified nothing for her. He saw this.

"And I'm on that side," he said heavily.

"Are you? Really?"

"Yes."

"Can't you change sides?"

He took a deep, calming breath. "No," he said shortly. "I can't."


	6. Chapter 6: British Justice

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **Chapter 6 British Justice**

 **Uncomfortable Ideas**

She awoke before the hour at which they usually rose and knew that he was awake, too, and had been for some time.

"You had a restless night," she said, turning toward him.

He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling in the blackness. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you." His voice had a formal note to it, the way it did when he was in ill humour.

"You didn't," she said lightly. She slid her hand over his chest and beneath his pyjama shirt, pressing it flat against his skin where she could feel his heart beating against her palm. She relished intimacies like this and for a moment just enjoyed it. And then she took a deep breath.

"I want to say something to you," she said quietly.

"No one is stopping you."

She tried to ignore his cool manner. Their conversation the previous evening had not ended in frostiness between them, she would not let it. But her gentle treatment had not dispelled his unease either.

"You've known about Thomas for a long time, Charlie. And lived with it. That's not really what's bothering you. It's what you saw and heard of those men and of Thomas's father that won't give you any peace."

"Is it." He did not like to be told what he thought, by her or anyone else.

But she persisted. "You've seen what you think is the natural extension of what you believe in your heart about...well, about men like Thomas. You disapprove of who Thomas is. _They_ disapproved of who Thomas is. But surely you can see a difference between yourself and those others. You said yourself you would never say or do those things."

"No," he said crisply. "I would not. But that _is_ the way I feel."

"And you think such feelings are immutable."

He shifted a little and she knew he was looking toward her, even though it was still too dark to see him. They had heavy curtains on the windows, more to keep out the cold draughts in the winter, but they pulled them every night because they both liked to sleep in darkness.

"It isn't simply a matter of _feeling_ , Elsie. _What_ he is is against the laws of God and man. What I _feel_ has very little to do with it."

"Well, isn't brutality against those same laws? Isn't hatred?" She had consciously to focus on keeping her voice as level as his was. However emotionally fraught the topic, this was not a moment to indulge such feelings.

He was silent, but his chest heaved.

"You know that is so," she added.

Still he said nothing. She hesitated for a moment, contemplating a different approach. She had something to say, but her evidence was loaded and she was unsure how he would respond. In these uncertain seconds, she began to move her hand in a soothing circle on his chest and he quieted in response.

"You believe in the sanctity of marriage."

"I do." He agreed immediately but there was a wary note in his voice, as he wondered where she was going with this.

"And in the sacredness of...marital relations."

"Of course." He could say this with confident self-righteousness. They had both met the conventional standards of purity on entering the married state.

"It was why you were so unforgiving of Ethel Parks's transgression. You thought she ought to have had the wherewithal to say no."

"Elsie," he said, slightly impatiently, "I hope you are not about to embark on a litany of my alleged offences over the course of our acquaintance. How tedious would that be."

"Not at all," she said swiftly. "I only want to make a point. Please, bear with me." She waited for him to nod and felt it when he did. "You thought quite differently about Lady Mary and her affair with the Turkish diplomat."

He tensed, as she knew he would. "It _wasn't_ an affair!"

She pressed ahead. "And you still treat Lady Edith with all due respect, even knowing about Miss Marigold, who you cherish as you do all children."

"I never hold the sins of the parent against a child," he said heatedly, "and Lady Edith, and Lady Mary, too, made mistakes..." His chest was heaving again.

Elsie forbore to challenge him on any of these assertions. "You were disappointed in Lady Mary though, for violating social and moral rules." She knew she was testing him here. He had told her more than once that he did not want to talk about Lady Mary's pre-war transgression.

"I'm not impugning your favourite," she said, not concealing a little exasperation on her own part. "Or Lady Edith either. These things happened. They just are."

"And your point, then?"

"You got past it," she said earnestly, pressing firmly against his chest now. "You knew that those indiscretions were only single strands of the individuals involved, not the whole of them. Neither was defined in your eyes by the fact that they were attracted to someone they oughtn't to have been, and that they acted upon it."

"It is not the same thing _at all_!" he declared, and took her hand to push it away. She only wrapped her hand around his and refused to let go.

"Isn't it?"

"What they did was not against the _law_!"

That much was true. "It was sinful though. But you _were_ able to get past it, because your love for Lady Mary and your regard for His Lordship...," she did not assume he had an affectionate attitude toward Lady Edith, "...allowed you to put what the girls did in a proper perspective."

His hand tightened in hers.

"What those men did to Thomas, they did because of who he is and they turned on you because you were prepared to help him. And that was sinful. And wrong in law, too. And the way Thomas's father acted, that was sinful, as well. And from where I'm sitting, I think God would have been on your side in going to his rescue, not their side in punishing him for his... _transgressions_ , which, by the way, were entirely theoretical." She could not contain an indignant note in this last remark, for it was true, too. They had known Thomas to act on his nature in a single instance, when he attempted to kiss footman Jimmy Kent, and that was a long time ago now and rather a minor matter.

"I wasn't defending Thomas's... _ways..._ by helping him. I would have done the same for _anyone_."

"Yes," Elsie said emphatically, "and you made a very deliberate choice in doing so. You knew why were doing what they were doing. You could have walked away if you thought of Thomas only in the same terms as those men did. But you didn't. You treated him in that moment _like anyone else._ He is a man with faults, of course, but a man for all that. And no one deserves to be treated like that. _That_ is what you think."

"No," he said vigorously. "No, I don't see it like that. You are twisting my thoughts. I do not, _can not_ ever approve of Mr. Barrow, or anyone else...like that."

She sighed. "I'm not asking you to. Not really. I'm only asking you to...put it all in a proper perspective, as you were able to do with Lady Mary and Lady Edith."

He said nothing.

She leaned forward, encircling his arm with hers, and kissing his shoulder.

He gently disengaged from her. "It's time to get up."

 **An Unsatisfactory Interview**

They went to the house for breakfast. It seemed to Elsie that sitting at the table with Mr. Barrow was hardly conducive to a congenial atmosphere or to her husband's emotional equilibrium, but in this she was mistaken. Their conversation the previous day appeared to have reduced the tensions between the butler and the underbutler, if not _within_ Charlie himself, and talk at the table unfolded as though nothing untoward had recently happened.

Things were somewhat more strained between husband and wife, though they did not see each other to speak privately until after the midday meal. Then he drew her aside and affected a demeanour that suggested all was well again, though she saw in his flickering gaze remnants of his irritation from that morning.

"I'm going into the village. His Lordship and I were discussing the progress...or rather, _lack_ of progress Sergeant Willis has made with regard to apprehending the...suspects. And I am going to determine why he has done exactly nothing."

"Well, he has been down with the flu," she said mildly, and then thought she might have refrained from making excuses for the sergeant, as it only elicited a sharp look from her husband.

"He's been out of bed for a week, or so I understand from Molesley, who has his ear to the ground for village comings and goings." Carson said this somewhat sardonically, for he had little regard for Molesley's tidbits of gossip. "And how complicated can it be to go over to the road works and make a few arrests."

In his official capacity, Sergeant Willis occupied a tiny space squeezed between the butcher's and the sweet shop. This was both a fortunate and unfortunate confluence for the man. Almost every villager and estate employee came through the butcher's at least once a week, providing endless gossip and on rare occasions some information that actually assisted in the pursuit of justice. But the sweet shop was a great temptation to the man and adversely affected his weight without contributing much in the way of useful facts.

When the butler of Downton Abbey appeared at his door, the sergeant, now restored to health, welcomed him cordially and offered compliments on his visitor's own sound recovery. But he was a little puzzled at the suggestion Mr. Carson made, with ill-concealed contempt, that he had failed in his duty in the matter of the complaint in question.

"There is no case to make, Mr. Carson," he said earnestly.

Carson could not believe the stupidity of the man. "I can assure you otherwise, _Sergeant_ , and I have the scars to prove it."

The constable, who fortunately did not take offense easily, acknowledged Carson's point. "I did not mean to suggest nothing happened, Mr, Carson. I know it did. And I hate to see a culprit escape justice, especially in such a violent matter."

"But?" Carson demanded, attempting to maintain a reasonable temper. Dr. Clarkson's office was not far away. He did not wish to renew his acquaintance with the man any time soon and be compelled to adhere to any more restrictive instructions.

The look on the sergeant's face was one almost of pity. "But you can't convict without witnesses, Mr. Carson," he said apologetically.

This made no sense to the irate butler. "How many do you need? You have three!"

Apparently this was not the case. "You can't identify the perpetrators. So you said in your statement. Mrs. Wigan can say only that there were four men in the post office. She _might_ be able to identify them, but she has admitted that she wasn't wearing her glasses and that she's near-sighted. Things at a distance, faces and the like, appear a blur to her."

"How convenient," Carson said drily. "Isn't Mr. Barrow's testimony sufficient? He saw them in both the post office _and_ the lane."

Sergeant Willis looked confused at this. "It was Mr. Barrow's statement that while he can identify the men who were in the post office, it was too dark in the lane and that they came on him too quickly for him to make a clear identification. And he was blinded by blood and ...," the sergeant softened his voice, "...well, tears of pain, before he got a good look. I thought you knew all this, Mr. Carson," he added.

The constable looked into the infuriated countenance of the butler and shrugged helplessly. "You can't arrest _or_ convict without an identification, Mr. Carson. And no one else has come forward with evidence. I'm afraid that's the reality of it."

The butler had no recourse to withdraw.

 _Tears of pain, indeed_! Carson raged to himself as he stormed out of the constable's cubicle. _I'll show him tears of pain_.

 **British Justice**

But he cooled down on the walk back to the Abbey. He had dealt with a great deal of aggravation in his professional life and was practiced at controlling his anger. But _this_! This taxed him. He made it his business to find Barrow as soon as he came into the downstairs and met him, inadvertently, in the passage.

"Mr. Barrow." He could contain his anger but saw no reason to disguise it. "I would see you in my pantry immediately after the servants' dinner tonight. Do not fail to turn up," he added ominously.

The underbutler, who had drawn himself up stiffly at Mr. Carson's approach, only nodded. They had not spoken, except to exchange information about upstairs meals, since their unsettling conversation the day before and Barrow might have wondered if he were to face repercussions as a result of it.

Carson put his head in the door of the housekeeper's sitting room. "I'll be in my pantry for the afternoon, unless I'm upstairs. And I _don't_ want to be disturbed."

"What's happened?" She knew he had been to see Sergeant Willis. "What did you find out from the constable?"

He shook his head. "I can't talk about it now."

It was one of the irritating aspects about working in such a busy environment - they could not have a private conversation here. Such circumstances could also be used to avoid an unwanted exchange, though, as was perhaps the case here.

When Carson got up from dinner, Barrow followed him to his pantry without a backward glance. And this time he closed the door without being instructed to do so.

"I went to the village to see Sergeant Willis today," Carson said peremptorily. He made an offhand gesture indicating that Barrow should sit, in deference again to the man's condition rather than out of kindness. Carson had no reserves of kindness to lavish on the underbutler at this point.

"Ah." Barrow eased himself into the visitor's chair, but sat erect and looked a little as though he were poised to make a quick exit. He was, Carson mused in passing, rather cat-like. Carson had never cared much for cats.

Carson himself did not sit down. He was too agitated to do so. Instead he stalked the room, careful to maintain some distance between himself and Barrow. "The sergeant tells me he cannot proceed to deal with the most violent crime Downton has seen in _my_ lifetime, a crime which had a serious impact on _my_ life, as well as yours. I _cannot_ make a positive identification of the culprits, and, the sergeant told me, you _will_ _not_. As a result, they will not be arrested or prosecuted. Are you aware of this, Mr. Barrow?" His voice was rich in cutting sarcasm, but he maintained a moderate tone.

"Yes."

"And this is how things stand?"

"Yes."

Carson stopped pacing and stared at him. "What are you playing at, Mr. Barrow?" he demanded. "This is a serious business. I want those men in jail. They'd have been tried and locked up by now, but for you." That was an optimistic characterization of the local courts, as Carson knew well enough, but he was trying to make a point. "You are obstructing justice and I want to know why."

Barrow's mouth was a tight, short line. His eyes were turned toward the butler, but not quite raised to meet the other's fierce gaze.

"They wouldn't end up in jail no matter what I said."

"Why not?"

Now Barrow's eyes did come up a little, so that they were eye to eye. "They would say it was self-defense, Mr. Carson. That I provoked them by make unnatural overtures. The _law_ would stop listening after that."

For a moment Carson appeared struck dumb. "Did you?" he asked softly.

"No!" Barrow, who had been remarkably restrained over the past two weeks, perhaps in response to the unwanted attention secured by his mere appearance, was transformed in a seconds. A scowl, reminiscent of a more animated Barrow of years gone by, marred his handsome face.

Silence prevailed for a long moment as Carson digested this. He did not know how things were with men like Barrow, and he had known Barrow to lie in the past. But the younger man's reaction rang true to him here. And he could not imagine, either, when Barrow would have had the opportunity.

"Then...why do you hesitate to speak the truth and bring the appropriate charges?"

Barrow made an impatient noise. "Because they will say that and be believed, Mr. Carson," he said, almost patronizingly. "And the proceedings will turn into an examination of me and my...morals, and they'll forget all about what happened to us. Well, to me anyway."

"I don't understand what... _that_...has to do with anything," Carson said brusquely. He had successfully divorced the incident from the motives that sparked it in his own mind and could not see why that did not apply in the broader context. "You were attacked by ruffians as you were going about your business. They beat you severely, interfering with your ability to pursue your livelihood for several days. You are still impaired by it. You cannot let them get away with it, Mr. Barrow. You must stand up to them."

"I can't," he said in little more than a whisper.

However distasteful the reason for it, the incident in the lane had been, Carson was convinced, an exercise in bullying. And there was only one way to deal with a bully. Clearly Barrow did not agree, for he had looked away again and his lower lip was protruding in that stubborn way he had. Carson stared hard at him, willing him to be a man about it.

"It's not that simple," Barrow went on, as if responding to Carson's formidable glare.

A long silence ensued. So Barrow _did not_ have the fortitude to carry his own battle. This had been understandable in the circumstances themselves, where the man had been outnumbered four to one. But a court of law evened the odds and right was on the underbutler's side. And it was not just about Barrow, was it? Carson wanted justice for himself, too, and punishment for the guilty parties. He squared his shoulders, prepared to pull his own weight in this process and perhaps also to show Mr. Barrow, by example, how to throw off the tyranny of a bully.

"Testify to the truth, Mr. Barrow, and I will support you in it. Tell Sergeant Willis what happened and why. I can corroborate your account of _that_ \- I heard what they... said - even if I cannot identify the men involved. In speaking first, you will have deprived them bearing false witness against you."

The curtain of defeat that had shrouded Barrow lifted a little at these words, and then quickly came over him again. "You don't know what you're saying, Mr. Carson."

Carson had no patience with either his wife dictating his thoughts or the underbutler of Downton Abbey proclaiming his ignorance. He fancied he knew more about the law than the clockmaker's son from Manchester. Nor was he pleased that his magnanimous offer should be flung back in his face.

"This is England, Mr. Barrow," he said, with considerable condescension. "British justice is the envy of the world. A man who has been attacked in the streets, through no fault of his own, and beaten almost senseless by them, has the protection and, indeed, the favour of most powerful courts and laws on the planet. I will stand with British justice, and for you, in this." Carson said this with an almost regal solemnity, for he thought it a form of doing one's duty. And yet Barrow remained unmoved and he was ever prepared to do that.

"Then you will be tarnished, too, Mr. Carson," he said almost plaintively.

Predictably Carson came over with a sudden wave of righteous indignation. "I beg your pardon!"

"They will say the same of you," Barrow insisted."They will say you...think the same way, that that's why you're taking my part."

"I am a married man!" The _nerve_ of the man even thinking that such a thing might be thought! What a twisted mind!

"Only recently." When Carson flared again, Barrow only extended his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"That's how it was in domestic service!" Carson declared. "You know that."

" _I_ know it," Barrow agreed quickly. "And you know it. But listen to yourself, you're already on the defensive and it's only me you're talking to. That's how it works! You don't _understand_ , Mr. Carson! It doesn't matter if it's lies or innuendo or gossip, or even relevant. It just _is_. And as soon as anyone alleges improper behaviour on my part, all the rules go out the window. Your testimony as to what they were saying will only _confirm_ that they were reacting in disgust to my...improper behaviour, rather than that they sought me out to...teach me a lesson or...whatever it is they were thinking."

The pitch of Barrow's voice went up as he spoke and his whole body seemed to reverberate with an inner turmoil. Carson watched, not without some grudging regard, as Barrow made a conscious effort to regain control of himself and to restore the impassive facade with which he usually faced the world.

"I will be publicly identified as the...kind of man I am," Barrow said, in a voice now devoid of the emotion his words stirred within him. "They might bring charges against me of gross indecency in order to defend themselves and there are four of them to testify to the lie, Mr. Carson. You may be tainted, if you act in any way that contributes to the case against them, because of what I am and what they will make of it. And no matter what happens, _they will go free._ "

Almost tentatively, Barrow's eyes came up to meet the butler's once more, seeking his reaction.

Such a pronouncement could not have sounded more foreign, or more fantastic, to Carson. Had Barrow declared the world to be flat or the moon made of cheese, he could not have given better evidence of an unsound mind. Carson had heard Barrow spin some tales in his time, but this one bore no consistency with the reality the butler knew.

"That is not how British justice works," he declared, as if saying it made it so. The butler was affronted at this blatant insult to one of the nation's most cherished institutions. Barrow was perhaps confusing the law's harsh prohibitions against unnatural acts with the principles of the rule of law and of evidence. The law might, at times, impose penalties that were too hard or even extreme, but the soundness of the principles was surely beyond question!

Barrow shook his head. "For people like you, maybe."

"What do you mean - _people like me_!"

The younger man shrugged. "You know what I mean, Mr. Carson. But it _is_ how the law works for people like me."

"But...that's abominable!" And still he could not - would not - believe it.

"Welcome to my world."

Barrow had apparently had enough of this. He heaved himself to his feet and without leave walked to the door. "It will mean scandal, Mr. Carson." As he pulled the door open, he turned once more to the older man. There was no rancor in Barrow's demeanour, but he did seem tired.

"The scandal will encompass me, and you, and Downton Abbey. Are you prepared for that, Mr. Carson?"

But Carson was shaking his head. "This is not over, Mr. Barrow," he said soberly.

"No," Barrow said with a sigh. "It's never over."


	7. Chapter 7: Coming to Terms

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **Chapter 7 Coming to Terms**

 **Survival**

Thomas slipped from the pantry, pulled the door closed, and then slumped against it. He needed a moment. His mind swirled with the substance of the conversation with Mr. Carson. His mind went reflexively to the hurtful question: _Did you_? As if every man was at least a potential target of his interests. Thomas wondered that he did not demand of Mr. Carson, _Are you attracted to every woman in the world_? With an effort he dismissed this irritation. In this instance, it was a distraction. Mr. Carson had asked only as a matter of thoroughness and had accepted his denial and moved on. No, there were more troubling elements of their conversation to concern him.

He wasn't worried that Mr. Carson would come barging out behind him. The butler had his own recovery to make. It would be a few minutes before he went in search of his wife's solace.

 _Lucky him. A shoulder to cry on._

Thomas did not _want_ Mrs. Carson's sympathetic words, so he pushed off again, his tread soft as he made his way to the staircase, lest he draw her attention. On the steps his speed increased and he lost his concern for making a racket. In the refuge of his room, he sank into the chair there and buried his head in his hands.

Mr. Carson's anger in this matter was no surprise to him. Naturally the man wanted to see justice done. Although Thomas bore the brunt of the damage in terms of bruises and fractures, the butler might have died of a stroke or, worse, lived with one. And it was a conventional enough expectation, in the event of a crime, to pursue and prosecute the offenders. That this would not happen here was a legitimate cause for aggravation. That Mr. Carson's anger should be accentuated by the way he had learned of this disappointment was also understdandable. Thomas should have told him directly, but he doubted the result would have differed much, except that now it was swaddled in a layer of deceit. Deceit was something Mr. Carson had always associated with him, and Thomas did not like vindicating such views.

He supposed he'd been prepared for Mr. Carson's...disapproval? disappointment?...but the reality of it was a blow nonetheless. He had seen it in the man's eyes. The butler thought he was a coward for refusing to stand his ground, for running away from the bullies. Thomas could tell that the man was even more disturbed by this behaviour than he was about their assailants going free. In Mr. Carson's eyes, this was a matter of character and clearly Thomas Barrow was seriously lacking in it.

The frustrating thing was that Thomas knew that Mr. Carson's perspective here was naive. _Stand up to them_ , he had urged Thomas. It was the classic response to bullying and in conventional circumstances it worked. Had not Thomas effectively put both sneering Lord Sinderby and his condescending butler Stowell in their place? Well, perhaps it wasn't quite the same. But there was no law saying you had to stand up to a bully with your fists. The point was that this approach did not work in Thomas's world, where a group of boys or men could threaten or hurt you, while otherwise upstanding men and women looked away.

Thomas knew how it must _look_ to Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson had _not_ looked away. And even in the face of Thomas's warnings of repercussions, he had maintained his offer to stand by Thomas in reporting the incident _in full_. It was a magnanimous offer. Thomas knew that the butler's determination was grounded more in his confidence in British justice than any affection for him, but that was unimportant. Thomas appreciated the offer anyway, even as he rejected it as unworkable.

He took no pleasure in undermining Mr. Carson's idealistic vision of justice, not that he was convinced he'd really shaken it. He wished the butler's perception of British law _was_ the reality. But he knew otherwise. Thomas knew what it was to live outside the law, which was not a common experience in this country. Had he not lived his whole life in fear of exposure and punishment, through childhood and school years and all his working life? He'd been fortunate at Downton, but had not wholly escaped it there either. Still, this relatively benign environment and his place in it must be protected and preserved. At last year's Christmas party, Thomas had shrugged at Andy's assessment of Mr. Carson as 'kind,' but grudgingly acknowledged that he was 'fair. And he had benefited from that.

He did not want to destroy himself or his life here with scandal, though he was not keen to court Mr. Carson's contempt either. Thomas had lived with the butler's disdain. He did not want to sink any lower in the esteem of this man, against whom he had tested his own mettle time and again, and whose approbation he did not lightly dismiss.

But he wouldn't change his mind about this, not even to keep what little good opinion Mr. Carson had of him. Above all, Thomas was a survivor.

 **Convulsions**

Well, he couldn't sit at his desk all night. Elsie was waiting and no matter how the situation with Barrow resolved itself, they would still have to get up in the morning. So he gathered his things and crossed the passage to her sitting room.

She took in his temper at a glance. "You look like you've had a day."

"I have." He took her outstretched hand and pulled her into his embrace for a long moment.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" She certainly wanted to _hear_ about it.

He nodded. "Not here."

They walked together, hand in hand, down the gravel path to the row of cottages, saying nothing but quietly relishing this opportunity for privacy in the comfort of their own residence. It was one of the benefits of their marriage that neither had truly appreciated in the abstract.

They did not speak, apart from brief exchanges about practical matters, until they had gotten into bed. Neither had anticipated all the advantages of discussing things together in bed, but it was something to which they had easily adapted. It could be awkward sometimes, as when they disagreed, but such proximity usually encouraged rapid and rewarding reconciliation.

He leaned back into the pillows which she had, as almost always, obligingly fluffed for him. Realizing that he was distressed, she sat facing him, holding his hands and watching him attentively.

"I feel the foundations rattling again," he said, struggling to put his feelings into words. "It's as though the things I hold dear or...believe in...are crumbling beneath me."

"And Mr. Barrow brought you to this?" Elsie was a little surprised that his unease over Barrow should claim so large a stage.

"In a way. Loathe as I am to admit it," he added.

"What's happened?"

So he told her what Sergeant Willis had said and then about his exchange with Barrow.

"Sergeant Willis cannot proceed because Mr. Barrow will not give him the information he needs to do so," she summarized. "And so these vile men will get away with their crime." Her disgust was patent, although directed exclusively at the criminals.

"Yes. And it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, I can tell you."

"So you've accepted Mr. Barrow's resolve in this?" she asked tentatively.

"I must!" he said, with some exasperation. "And I'm angry with him about it. _And_ disappointed - although that is a useless emotion."

She studied him carefully. "I'd have thought you'd be a lot angrier than you are." _And_ louder.

His expression twisted in a look mingling irritation and bewilderment. "I can't countenance _Mr. Barrow_ , of all people, running scared like this."

This puzzled Elsie. "Why not?"

"I've never thought much of him. You know that. I've scorned his weasel-like ways, his operating in the shadows, his...disinclination to tell the truth," he added acidly. "But I thought he had confidence enough for two men, not caring a whit what other people think. Certainly not what _I_ think. And yet he was...rattled by this, as I've never seen him before. _Barrow_." He shook his head, still not quite believing it.

"Well, he's scared," Elsie said, with understanding. "And who wouldn't be, in his shoes."

" _I_ was scared," Charlie said emphatically. "Although I wouldn't tell anyone but you." They exchanged a brief, intimate smile at this. "But they were _bullies_. You have to confront bullies, let them know you won't let them push you around. It's the only way." He repeated this because he had to do so. It was a truism he could not surrender.

"And the implications of doing so? What about what Mr. Barrow said? Damage to him and his reputation, scandal for Downton Abbey, and you. What about you? What if it happens as Mr. Barrows says and you are muddied in the exchange?"

Having issued his diagnosis and remedy for the situation, he could not back down. Setting his jaw determinedly, he said, "I know who and what I am, as do those who know me. I've nothing to fear there." Barrow's remarks had thrown him in the moment. That anyone might attempt to impugn his character or, in this case, his nature, had come as a shock to him. But he had recovered and returned to his standard line of defense. "That's the thing about bullies. It's always a matter of a rock and a hard place. That's why it takes courage to stand up to them. The answer must always be to do the right thing."

"Even if it destroys you?"

"It won't destroy me."

"No. I agree with you there. But it might destroy Mr. Barrow. Are you prepared for that?"

"So Mr. Barrow must walk ...or run...away from it to protect himself? And what happens the next time these louts roll into the village? And...things can't work the way he described it, Elsie," he said earnestly, and then added, less certainly, "It _mustn't_. Or it would be all wrong."

She had begun to discern the source of his unease and she was not unsympathetic to his confusion. "But you already know that things don't always work the way they're supposed to, especially in circumstances like these."

He looked more bewildered than ever.

"You yourself were prepared to yield to blackmail when Jimmy Kent threatened to charge Thomas a few years ago. You didn't want to risk the scandal to the house. The law was on Jimmy's side then and that gave him the power to make _you_ do something shabby." He was not so distracted that he could not be incensed by this allegation. She just gave him a look. "Well, what do you call dismissing a man without a reference after ten years of solid service? Are you more determined now because you got caught up in it?"

She had stirred his blood by referring to that unpleasant incident involving the former footman. It had been a distasteful episode all around and he would like to have put it behind him and never referred to it again. But she had raised other issues, too.

"No," he said firmly. "That's not it. The...incident...with James was different. In that instance, Thomas _had_ transgressed. He _would_ have been the one facing a charge and the charge _would_ have been one of ...erm...unnatural behaviour. And he would have gone to jail for it, too. As much as I wanted to avoid scandal, the...allegation itself was not that serious, and I would not have wished jail on Mr. Barrow for it."

He paused and then nodded. "But it _was_ wrong of me to give in to James on that. You're right there. I should have worked harder to find a way out. His Lordship managed it."

"This time, though, Thomas is the victim, not the...perpetrator. What...he is has nothing to do with it. Or shouldn't. And yes, I do want justice for myself. But," and his tone became more heated with this, "I want justice for him, too. I..." He struggled again, almost inarticulate in his capacity to express the contradictory impulses that gripped him, and then he wilted in defeat, slumping back against the headboard. " _I_ am between a rock and a hard place, Elsie. I recoil from Mr. Barrow and his... _nature_ , as you would have it. But I want him to fight...for his right to exist, if not to behave as he likes, because if he won't...if he can not find justice for himself in _this_ nation, then what does that say about British justice?"

And there it was. It was the same dilemma he had raised the night before in discussing the incident of violence and the attitudes that had led to it. Last night it had been the conflict between his innate sympathy for those with a revulsion for men like Thomas and his wholesale rejection of the violent behaviour such attitudes wrought. Today he confronted more contradictions. Thomas must pursue his fundamental rights of security of person under the law and yet that same law held _Thomas_ to have a criminal nature and might sustain his assailants because of it. And on a more personal level, he found himself determined to defend Thomas, even to the point of publicly acknowledging the man's nature, in order to counter a different kind of evil, in the form of unprovoked violence.

It was not, Elsie knew, that he had not faced complex questions before. Or even, she thought, that he was unaware of the imperfect character of British justice. It was the _focus_ of these contradictions that disturbed him. He had coexisted with Thomas for years without conflict or, indeed, inner turmoil over the younger man's nature, but he had done so largely by burying his head in the sand over it. So long as it was not overt, there was no need to address the myriad moral contradictions that surrounded it. If they had skirted closely to it once or twice, they had also managed to re-inter it swiftly and effectively. This time, there was so much more at stake.

"Well, I don't have all the answers," Elsie said at last, tightening her hold on his hands and drawing his attention thereby. "Or any of them, perhaps. But I can think of a few things to say about it all."

He regarded her warily. "Might it be possible to avoid mention of Lady Mary in any of them?"

She thought about it. "I'll try."

He was desperate enough for any form of relief and so nodded. "Go ahead, then."

"All right. Well, about Thomas. Put aside your anger and...disappointment for a moment, and try to understand."

"I can't."

"Well, _I_ can. Because...Anna felt the same way after...that man...did what he did to her."

He groaned. "Must we discuss that?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "I know we disagreed about it. You were angry with me for helping her to conceal it. I'm not sure you were wrong, but there was more there, too, and it's a lot like the situation Thomas is in."

"Women almost always bear the blame in such circumstances. The man is assumed innocent until proven guilty, but the woman is held responsible to some degree. Her personal history is raked over. She is accused of enticing the culprit, or of inviting the assault by the way she dressed or spoke or acted, or of lying afterwards about consent. A...a trial for rape almost always becomes an investigation of the morals of the victim."

His head came up sharply at that. Barrow had said something similar.

"The woman is so hounded and harassed that you begin to wonder why the man is the one on trial. It's the same for Thomas. He knows that it can all be turned too easily against him. As he told you, those men might very well say _he_ made an improper advance and they were just reacting. That would turn a judge or a jury in an instant, the same way they turn if a single question, justified or not, comes up about a woman." Elsie could not conceal her disgust as she spoke. Whatever was right in the abstract, she had sympathized with Anna in the moment, as she could with Thomas now.

"But to do nothing is to perpetuate the problem!" he declared, swallowing the bile of indignation that had risen in his own throat at this account. "So Mr... I mean, the _valet_ may assault Anna and then other women with impunity. And the road crew may use Mr. Barrow for a punching bag. And we just accept it?"

She sighed. "No. But challenging them is more complicated than sending Sergeant Willis off to make an arrest and going to court for a day."

"But what does that say about British justice?" he cried. He invoked the institution as though it were an element of his own character.

"You ask too much of things, Charlie. And sometimes of people," she added.

"I don't understand."

"You think British justice is perfect."

"Well, I _did_."

"Well, of course it isn't, and you know that yourself. And that's nothing to have a crisis of faith about. Justice isn't something that... _is_ , immutable and unchanging. It's almost a living thing, _ever_ changing."

 _Change_. "Change everywhere," he muttered.

"Yes. _Yes._ And a good thing, too. The justice system grows and broadens its reach. Things get better. But there are a great many things that need work."

"But the only way to achieve change is to fight for it," he said forcefully. "You and Anna and Mr. Barrow seem to prefer to keep your heads down and hope it doesn't happen again. _I_ want to face this injustice and fix it."

"We're not all reformers," she said. "And I didn't know you were either."

"I'm not." He was more than a little unsettled by this exchange. Somehow he had ended up on a side that was wholly foreign to him, challenging the _status quo_ , arguing in favour of _reform_. He would be praising the Liberals next.

"No. And you're not the one who'll pay the price for it either. Reform takes a lot of courage...," she noted his raised eyebrow at that, a reflection on Thomas and his reluctance to testify, "... _and_ support _and_ will-to-change amongst a lot of people. It's hard enough for women, let alone men like Thomas. Just listen to yourself."

He bristled at that and then calmed again. "It's back to me again. So the law must change, and I must change, but Thomas is who he is." His lack of enthusiasm for this conclusion was palpable.

"Well, the law is malleable, Charlie, and so are you." She paused as though considering that second bit. "But Thomas _is_ who he is."

He leaned back heavily and closed his eyes, defeated.

She watched him and could not help but smile. He was a man of strong views, her Mr. Carson, and she did not agree with him on all of them. He could be narrow-minded and swift to judgment and occasionally self-righteous. But he was a thinking man, too. And he had a conscience. He might resist a challenge to his closely-held assumptions and convictions, do his best to avoid questioning his fundamental beliefs. But when obliged to confront them, he was capable of critical thought and his great heart allowed for the exercise of compassion and kindness. That he struggled, rather than closing his mind entirely, was his saving grace. She loved him for it.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

His eyes opened immediately and he smiled at her. He was very fortunate in her.

"You were surprised that Thomas could be cowed by the law."

He did not want Thomas Barrow to take up any more of his time this evening, but Elsie had indulged him, and soothed him, and brought him to a place where he might at least consider more calmly the contradictions forced upon him by recent events. He owed her an indulgence in return. And it was not an uninteresting matter.

"Aren't you? Mr. Barrow has never been anything but bold and cool with me, even when wisdom might have dictated otherwise. To see him so dispirited and...vulnerable... It was unsettling."

Elsie moved in beside him, snuggling against his chest and prompting him to draw his arm about her.

"It's hardly surprising that he should always behave that way with _you_ ," she said, patting his chest. "You're the centre of authority at Downton - the authority he deals with anyway. He would never want you to see him as weak." She thought about it for a moment. "It must have cost him a great deal to expose his fears to you today," she added, and pressed her hand against his chest, as if trying to impress him with this sentiment.

He glanced down at her. "You talk as though I ought to pity him."

"No. Not pity. But you might be a little kinder."

He groaned in dismay. "Perhaps I could stand bodyguard over him? And what _about_ this situation then? Are we really just to put it behind us and hope the perpetrators don't come back to finish him off?"

"Why don't you speak to His Lordship about it?"

"Why?"

"Well, he'll want to know what's come of it anyway. And as you said, he came up with a solution over that incident with James. Perhaps he can figure something out with this, too."

"And you wouldn't mind my discussing it with him?"

She turned her head that she might meet his gaze. "I want you to rest easy again, Charlie."

He drew his fingers gently down the side of her face and felt a warm glow as she turned into his touch and pressed her lips to his hand. "I know why I married _you_ ," he said idly. "But I often cannot understand why you married me."

"Oh, I need a lot more time to come up with an answer to that," she said lightly.

He could feel her smile against his shoulder. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head and then reached over to turn off the light.

 **Accommodation**

"You wanted to know, my lord."

It wasn't possible to report on Sergeant Willis's actions without elaborating the broader context of the incident to His Lordship. Carson nevertheless kept his narrative to the essentials - informing His Lordship of the motive of the assailants and Barrow's response to this as necessary background to the failure to make arrests and lay charges. He added no editorial details reflecting the feelings of either Barrow or himself in regard to these events.

"I did. Thank you, Carson. Although this is hardly a very encouraging development."

"I agree."

"We don't have crime like this in Downton. I daresay we don't have it in Yorkshire," Robert declared. "And I don't want it to happen again." He paused. "But I see Barrow's perspective, too."

"Do you?" Carson _still_ didn't see it, not really, not for days of being told to try.

Robert shrugged. "Scandal," he said. "For him, for Downton. His reputation may be irreparably damaged. And _you_ may be drawn into it, too."

"Then, you give credence to Mr. Barrow's apprehensions, my lord." This was a matter in which His Lordship's opinion would weigh heavily for Carson.

With a grimace, Robert nodded. "I do. It's an odd thing, really. _I_ don't know what all the fuss is about. I knew a few boys like that when I was at school. I've known them as men. Some were good chaps, some fools, some bloody bastards. Just like the rest of us." His gaze focused on Carson. "Did you not encounter their like at the grammar school in Ripon?"

Carson's eyebrows, already elevated at His Lordship's musings, shot higher. " _No_ , my lord," he said emphatically.

"Hmm." Robert was almost imperceptibly taken aback. "No. I suppose not. They wouldn't have shown their colours there for fear of being trounced."

His Lordship spoke so casually of it, but all Carson could think of was Barrow's story of having been beaten by a bunch of school fellows.

"But that doesn't help us to resolve the situation here, at Downton," Robert said briskly, returning to the subject. "What do you want to do, Carson? You were affected, too, after all."

"I _would_ have had them brought up on charges, my lord, and tried. But I have been...persuaded that this might not be in Mr. Barrow's interest." He had been a long time coming to that point of view and it still sat uneasily with him.

"Of course it goes beyond Barrow. But I won't see a man destroyed over it, not in this case."

Carson was intrigued, as well as disturbed, by His Lordship's easy acquiescence. "Would it really come to that?"

Robert nodded, almost glumly. "I've seen it happen before. Men like Barrow...they're part of our world, but it is, as Mr. Wilde famously said, 'the love that dare not speak its name,' and for good reason. When it comes out of the shadows, men are ruined by it." *****

"As Mr. Wilde was," Carson intoned. The Wilde case had quite shocked him.

"Well, he did rather ask for it," Robert said, unsympathetic in that instance. "But the same cannot be said of Barrow and I believe we must protect him." He thought for a minute. "If he will at least identify the culprits, I can have them banned from the village, though that will lie lightly on them. And I might prevail on the road works to fire them. It is poor recompense for the crime they have committed, but our hands are tied."

Carson was inclined to agree, although that His Lordship was determined to take any action at all pleased him, and outside of recourse to the law, there were no other options.

"The decision is, ultimately, Barrow's, Carson. If he would testify, I would stand by him, and damn the scandal." When the butler raised an inquiring brow, Robert affirmed his stance with a nod. "I've begun to think that we worry too much about scandals. Perhaps I've become inured to potential consequences from too many hot moments."

"I have assured Mr. Barrow of my support in court, as well, my lord," Carson said, although he was less sanguine about scandal than was His Lordship.

"Really?" Robert was startled.

Carson gave him a look.

Chastened, Robert hurried on. "I shall let him know my views," he said, "and that I will take what action I can within the avenues we have open to us. Barrow should know that we stand by him."

Their interview over, Carson turned to go. A sigh from His Lordship caught his attention.

"It's a bloody business, Carson."

 ***A/N.** Oscar Wilde did make the phrase famous in his trial for gross indecency in 1895, although the phrase itself was the work of Lord Alfred Douglas.


	8. Chapter 8: Gratitude

**FEAR AND LOATHING**

 **CHAPTER 8 Gratitude**

 **Lord Grantham's Perspective**

Lord Grantham asked to see him after breakfast a few days later. It was the first day Thomas had returned to work upstairs, his bruises having faded almost to insignificance. He went along to the small library with no small measure of trepidation.

 _It's not over_ , Mr. Carson had said. He had not spoken to Thomas again on the subject, and had in fact adopted a demeanour of polite distance toward him, but that meant nothing. Thomas thought it likely that, having failed himself to press the case successfully, he had sought out a more influential ally in His Lordship.

His Lordship would be, if possible, even more determined than Mr. Carson to see the culprits apprehended. The butler might seek satisfaction on his own behalf, but His Lordship had the security of the village and its reputation on his shoulders. And then there was his regard for Mr. Carson, which superceded even that which he had for Mr. Bates, and see what lengths he had gone to for him. Thomas felt the pressure. He was determined not to yield to it, but he did not know how vigorously His Lordship would fight. It was another aspect of the incident that bore down heavily on him and which he would rather live without.

"Barrow, come in." His Lordship wore a serious expression, but his tone was an affable one. He was sitting at his desk. Thomas went to stand by his side.

"I'll come straight to the point, Barrow. Carson has told me of your decision not to pursue charges against the men who assaulted you. He says you are determined in this course. Is this true?" His manner was businesslike. In this moment he was only attempting to ascertain the facts.

"Yes, my lord." Thomas thought to let His Lordship direct the conversation, making his defense when and where it seemed most appropriate.

His Lordship shook his head. "It's a bad business, Barrow. Carson has explained why you've made this decision..."

Thomas could imagine how _that_ would have gone. No doubt Mr. Carson would have framed his reluctance as significant character flaw. Naturally His Lordship sided with the butler. _Naturally_ for all sorts of reasons. Thomas felt a flicker of irritation. _What would they know about it?_

"...and you may appreciate that doing nothing is not something I can wholly countenance, where the good of the larger community is concerned."

 _What larger community?_ Thomas knew His Lordship meant the village and the estate, but he was thinking of his own community. So far as he knew, he was the only member of that _community_ for miles about.

"That said,..."

Thomas forced himself to concentrate.

"...Carson and I are in agreement that your wishes must prevail in this, as you have so much to lose in the event of a public airing of...aspects... that, while irrelevant to the assault, may come out anyway if it goes to court."

 _Wait_. _What?_ Thomas was confused. He had already formulated this conversation in his head, put words into His Lordship's mouth the better to prepare his own defense. But this wasn't unfolding as he'd anticipated.

"We... _both_ want you to know that we would sustain you if you wanted to go forward. Carson is prepared to offer testimony as to the motive of the attack and I am braced for the notoriety the story may bring to Downton. But...," His Lordship went on smoothly, perhaps determined to avoid any descent into sentiment, "...in any event, I should like to take _some_ action. If you could find a way to identify them...unofficially...then I might be able to persuade the roadworks crew to sack them."

"You...would do that?" Thomas stared, his eyes wide, his jaw slightly slack. It took a great deal to surprise Thomas Barrow, but His Lordship had managed it.

"I have a responsibility to Downton in its entirety, Barrow. That includes _all_ those who live and work on the estate." His Lordship spoke easily and with a slight air of bewilderment, clearly unable to discern why Thomas should be moved at all.

He tried to clear the fog from his brain. "But they'll know why, surely, won't they, my lord? That might bring them back to the village. I'm not," he hastened to add, wanting to dissociate himself from any accusation of cowardice, "afraid for myself, my lord,..." although he hoped never to renew his acquaintance with those men, "...but..."

Robert nodded in understanding. "I hope they make the connection, Barrow, for that is the entire point. And if they are not sufficiently deterred, then I shall also ban them from the village and have them arrested and fined should they trespass. If the law does not serve us in one way, Barrow, we must find another way to make it do so."

Several seconds of silence elapsed.

His Lordship might offer this alternative, but Thomas knew it could hardly be his preference.

"I'm afraid I've let you down, my lord."

But Robert only shook his head. "Nothing of the sort, Barrow. We must all fight our own battles in our own way."

Perhaps it was the way His Lordship spoke, or perhaps it was that Thomas, despite himself, was susceptible to the man's quiet authority, but he felt a burden slide from his shoulders with these words. He was surprised, and still cautious, but also relieved.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Not at all."

His Lordship turned slightly in a manner Thomas recognized as a signal of dismissal, but the tenor of this exchange gave him the courage to raise a matter he had been mulling over for days.

"My lord."

His Lordship glanced his way.

Thomas took a deep breath. "Might I ask a favour, my lord?"

An almost imperceptible nod from His Lordship, coupled with a curious look, prompted him to continue.

"It's Mr. Carson, my lord. He...did me a good turn...that night...and I want to do something for him in return." He had caught His Lordship's attention with this.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carson have few opportunities to spend an evening together, go out for dinner, that sort of thing. I wondered if you would allow me to stand in for Mr. Carson some night, my lord, when only the family are at home, of course, so that they might enjoy...such a diversion."

He had been determined on some display of gratitude and this was all he had come up with. Carson needed nothing, nothing that Thomas could buy for him anyway. If they were closer, then a heartfelt thanks might have been sufficient. But the coolness of their relationship, as well as the magnitude of the action taken, demanded something more. It was a poor idea, in that it required an imposition on the family. But what else did he have to give except his service?

His Lordship considered it. "That is very thoughtful of you, Barrow."

"Mr. Carson put himself at risk for me, my lord," Thomas hurried on, trying to bolster his case. "I am indebted to him." A debt of honour was something he was sure His Lordship would appreciate.

After a moment, His Lordship nodded. "You have my permission, Barrow, although it is Carson's agreement you need. I'm not sure he'll go along with it. He may fear you are angling for his job."

In another household, this might even have been possible. And at another time, it might even have crossed Thomas's mind. But not here. Not now. Perhaps His Lordship saw this.

"Good luck with it, Barrow," he said gently.

"Thank you, my lord."

 **Back to Normal...Almost**

Carson had not expected to see Mr. Barrow in his pantry any time soon. Had they not fairly exhausted the subject of the troublesome matter that had bound them together these past few weeks? He had said that it wasn't over, but that had been his anger talking. His conversations with Elsie and His Lordship had put paid to his ambitions with regard to seeing those men in jail. It was in His Lordship's hands now and, though not ideal, the means His Lordship had suggested to address the situation were at least acceptable. And he would welcome them if they could only put this whole thing behind them.

And yet Barrow's parting words troubled him: _It's never over_. He'd adopted a polite, if arm's length attitude toward the underbutler and hoped that whatever form _it_ took for the man in the future, that he at least would not be caught up in it. He almost sighed to see Barrow standing there, but allowed, he supposed, that they would have to acknowledge together His Lordship's solution and then, please God, _then_ they could get past it.

Barrow did want to tell him what His Lordship had said and that he was agreeable to it.

"Then we are all satisfied, Mr. Barrow," Carson said smoothly, and hoped that, having gotten what he wanted the man would not linger. But he did.

"There is something else, Mr. Carson."

Carson listened with surprise and no little discomfort to the underbutler's proposal.

"I've spoken with His Lordship, Mr. Carson. He is agreeable. It is only for you to allow me this opportunity to express my gratitude."

There was a tone in the underbutler's voice with which Carson was not familiar. Was it humility? He had done other things for Barrow over the years - declining to take formal steps against his thieving, not forcing the issue with His Lordship over the re-hiring of Barrow after the war or his promotion to underbutler - and had not been acknowledged for doing so. This situation was, admittedly, a different kind of thing, a more consequential matter for Barrow. Carson heard sincerity in these words.

But in responding to them, he had to take account of his own feelings and of the way in which the incident, and its aftermath, had affected them. Would that Barrow had left it alone and allowed them both to sink back into the way things had been between them. If it was not a satisfactory relationship, it had at least allowed for coexistence. By introducing _gratitude_ into the mix, a sentiment neither had ever felt - genuinely - toward the other, Barrow was changing the dynamic. And if Barrow was shifting, then that meant that Carson must do so as well.

He had listened to Barrow's statement while seated at his desk. It was a position that gave him the advantage to his standing visitors. But to reply, he felt it necessary to stand himself. He took a moment. He was not easy with the words he was about to utter but, like Barrow, he spoke with sincerity.

"I do not deserve your gratitude, Mr. Barrow. While I could not abuse you, or anyone...like you, either physically or with words, I...share an antipathy to your...difference...with those men and with...your father. I would have preferred not to confront this fact. I would have preferred to continue as we have done in indifference to one another. But...I cannot deny my feelings."

If he was not always kind, he was fair. It would have been a lie to say otherwise.

But Barrow was not deterred. He continued to meet Carson's eyes not boldly, but firmly.

"As I cannot...and will not...deny mine, Mr. Carson."

They stood in stony silence for a long moment.

"You will, perhaps, admit that I have more experience in the matter of attitudes toward my...difference, than you, Mr. Carson," Barrow said unexpectedly. "So let me say this. Those men did not know me. They attacked me on the basis of a little gossip, without any...evidence...as to the charges they laid at my door. They would beat me to a pulp on the strength of a malicious hint. You _know_ what I am. And yet you came to my defense anyway. You _aren't_ the same as them, Mr. Carson. And you're not like my father either. You have tolerated me. And that's something."

Barrow meant it kindly, Carson was certain of it. And yet the words stung him. "You've made me ashamed of myself, Mr. Barrow," he said with gravity. It was a hard thing to admit.

"And I've disappointed you, Mr. Carson." They both knew he was referring to his refusal to give evidence against their assailants.

Carson only shook his head and, despite himself, glanced away. "I'll get over it. In the meantime, you need feel no gratitude toward me. You owe me nothing."

Barrow took a step forward, as if to emphasize his next words. "I want to do this thing for you, Mr. Carson. Because I _am_ grateful." Then he paused. "You needn't worry. I won't make a habit of it."

It was Barrow as he usually was - cocky, obnoxious, irreverent. Carson felt a familiar wave of exasperation at the man's boldness that he almost welcomed as a signal that the normality he craved had been restored. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath, and now let it out in a sigh of relief.

He met the younger man's direct gaze once more. "Then I accept your offer, Mr. Barrow. For Mrs. Carson, if not for myself. _She_ deserves your gratitude more than I do."

Barrow managed a quiet smile and lowered his head in an acknowledging nod. "Then we may make arrangements at your convenience, Mr. Carson."

 **THE END**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks to all readers and especially to all reviewers. There is nothing like a review to make me, or any other writer, pick up the pen and attack another chapter.


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